Half Life 2 Episode 4: Possibilities
by Nintendolover222
Summary: After the tenacious defense of White Forest against a nigh-insurmountable force of the Romanian-Serbian Overwatch, the entirety of Romania has been freed of Combine jurisdiction and now the rest of the free world beckons. SEQUEL TO EPISODE 3 POSSIBILITIES
1. Prologue: Nuclear Larcenists

_**Damnant quodnon intelligunt**_

—**Latin, translated:**

** _they condemn what they do not understand._  
**

—

**-=Half Life 2 Episode 4: Possibilities=-**

**-=Prologue: Nuclear Larcenists=-**

**Five months after Gordon's death, undefined Siberian location**

It was cold.

Then again, it was almost always cold here. The skies were grey and it was cold.

Very cold.

His mind continued to return to this undeniable fact. His body wouldn't, nay, _couldn't _forget that he was walking through a small, claustrophobic hallway in subzero temperatures. But of course, he had good reason to be somewhere other than his heated quarters or out on the field of battle fighting those Resistance bastards whose human flesh had seemingly adapted to the frigid air centuries before the Combine had even come to Earth. Of course, it helped that they not only had giant fur and woolen coats wrapped around them but vests made of Kevlar underneath, meaning they were not only warm but bullet-resistant also.

The reason he was here was so important in fact that he had left a particularly vicious battle about fifty kilometres away by helicopter an hour ago, just to be present at this hurriedly-convened meeting.

The end of the corridor arrived, complete with a metal door painted bright red that contrasted completely to the dull grey and white flaking paint on the concrete walls all around him. Without delay, he rapped on the small frosted glass window at eye-level in the centre of the door. Someone opened it immediately, saluting him with their free hand when they recognised him. "General, sir," The soldier greeted the officer as he stepped into the office-like room, closing the door behind him, "we're ready for you."

The General nodded as he sat himself down at a wooden table that looked as cold as he did, possibly more so. He looked around at the five other officers gathered and he clasped his hands together professionally. "Well, let's get down to it, shall we?"

One of the officers leaned forward in his chair. "Sir, I assume you were informed as to the reason requiring your presence here?"

The General chuckled, turning his head to the officer. "Indeed I was, albeit briefly. So," he looked out at the others once more, "am I right in believing we have located a nuclear missile... intact and operational?"

"Not quite, sir," another officer corrected, "we have located a nuclear missile fully intact, however it has not been operational for almost fifteen years since constant maintenance is required to keep them in a condition to launch. Since the human race was only able to utilise nuclear fission as a weapon a mere seventy years ago their methods are crude, unreliable and disastrous to the environment."

The General nodded slowly, "so we have a dead missile?"

"Yes sir. The missile will never launch." The officer paused before continuing, "_But _the warhead is a different story."

Nobody said anything for a few moments. "What type?"

"Five megaton 8F021 from an SS-18 Satan Intercontinental Ballistic Missile containing three Multiple Independently targeted Re-entry Vehicle warheads."

"MIRV?"

"Yes sir."

"So this missile, if it ever fired, would go up, release its missile shroud and drop three independent warheads on up to three different locations?"

"Exactly, sir."

The General leaned back in his seat. "So we've got five megatons of nuclear warheads?"

"Yes sir."

Looking around at the others gathered, the General sat up in his seat. "Where is this warhead?"

The officer directly opposite him clapped his hands together, and three soldiers headed out the second door in the room, the one right behind the officer who had clapped. About twenty seconds later, they came back in, carrying something in their hands about the size of a large backpack. They walked over to the gathered officers and gently placed the object base-down on top of the table.

The General's eyes were masked by the mirrored lenses over them and therefore the others didn't see them glistening in delight. "And we can detonate this?" He whispered sinisterly, leaning forward to observe the large item now lying on the table.

"Whenever we need to, it'll be ready for us."

The General nodded, leaning back in his seat. "Excellent."

**Seven months after Gordon's death**

—_**Universal Union Advisor News Report:**_

Human resistance efforts have proved catastrophic to the Capital of the Universal Union. A fossil-fuelled rocket-propulsion system carrying a basic Xenium Resonator and a warhead containing approximately five hundred grams of extremely potent Dark Energy was sent through the Superportal in the Earth's atmosphere and detonated in high-orbit above the Capital.

Fatalities number in excess of twenty billion.

The Capital no longer provides the minimum requirements critical to the operation of Combine Administration throughout the universe. No such replacement has yet been decided upon. At present all planets under Combine Administration are independently controlled by their Advisors.

Any situation updates will be relayed to Combine Administrative Nexuses when they arise.

—

—_**Universal Union Terran Operatives Transmission Report: **_

**CLASSIFIED INFORMATION**

_Data received by Combine Administration of Planet Trysik_

_Connection established via basic function Long-Range Digital Message Delivery Unit by Terran Combine Operatives at 5:18:56 PM Central European Time_

_Time elapsed between connection and signal loss: 0.82 seconds_

_Information received: 73 bytes of ASCII-encoded text_

_Displaying..._

—two anticitizens one dead send phyx to inferno abyss find body of soldier

_Phyx Unit departed from Trysik Special Operations Institute to Inferno Abyss Correctional Facility, Norbotten, Northern Sweden at 29:81:40 MV Global Capital Time._

_Awaiting further contact. _


	2. One: Reanimation

**PART I: Pursuit of Vengeance**

—

-

**-=Chapter One: Reanimation=-**

**Thirteen months after Gordon's death, 12/11/2022**

The cold wasn't something they appreciated as others might.

For thousands of years, the Trysikan people had lived on a planet the human race would call _tropical_. However, the sweltering climate of the jungle-covered planet they had lived on — and been enslaved on for the past century or so — could only be described by one word in their native language: _Jhevitsk_.

Inferno Abyss Correctional Facility in Northern Sweden was anything but jhevitsk.

It was ironic, really, that it had such a name as Inferno Abyss. One could say the title was synonymous with hell, but since the only people who would actually consider it to be 'a place of pain and turmoil' were humans, they couldn't tell if the Combine had named it so on purpose or if they had merely misinterpreted the definition of 'hell' as a fiery hole in the ground rather than a place of suffering.

Because it most certainly _was not _a fiery hole in the ground. What it was could be identified as a freezing cold concrete base built in front of a towering rocky mountainrange.

It was snowing heavily when the dropship landed on the helipad northeast of the courtyard, and the cloudless evening sky was a dark gloomy grey. Even though dropships were not commonly used for non-militant transport, the five Phyx had come via a Combine stealth carrier callsigned _Serenity _that had taken seven months to get there so it wasn't as if they had the option of taking a helicopter from high orbit above the blue and green planet.

The five occupants disembarked, empty handed and wearing only thin red robes adorned with brazen stripes of expensive fabric. Their skin was deathly pale and their faces were thin and bony, as if they were the disciples of death incarnate.

Soldiers stood to attention as the five towering creatures slowly made their way off the helipad, onto the snowy ground. Despite the fact that their clothes wouldn't have given protection against even the lightest rain they didn't appear to be affected in any way by the cold, although they themselves didn't look like they even had emotions.

Two soldiers approached them, their booted feet crunching in the snow. All around them, the wind howled loudly and the snow fell onto their thick clothing. "Follow us." The soldiers ordered distortedly through their respirator-clad mouths, before they turned around and headed for the dark collection of buildings not far west of the helipad. The five Phyx obeyed without objection, their robes concealing their presumably lean legs as they trudged after the guards.

—

Seven months previously, the guards at Inferno Abyss had completed a very basic long-range communication system that was effectively a very primitive email delivery system. It couldn't receive any form of reply, it couldn't send anything above the simplest form of ASCII-encoded text and the connection it had created to send the text message had collapsed less than a second after it had been established.

It had effectively been the digital equivalent of a very fast, very accurate message in a bottle.

However, even though the device was now about as useful as the stick of a lollipop it had confirmed one thing: a single green LED had affirmed that the message had successfully been sent.

This news had spread quickly through Combine forces stationed — and stuck — on Earth. It was not only incredible, but proved that they weren't entirely cut off from the rest of the Universal Union. At least, they hadn't been for about eighty milliseconds. Now they were again, and for seven months they had been praying that the Advisors on Trysik had acted on their message and that they had sent a group of Phyx on the ridiculously tedious trip to Earth that would take approximately half a year.

The only connection that the Combine force on Earth had had with the Universal Union Capital was through the gigantic nexus known only as the Citadel. While it had not been the only Citadel on Earth, it had been the epicentre of Combine Administration on Earth and by far the biggest. Apart from other, less relevant things, the Citadel in Romania was the only one that had had an Advisor Conference Room, a tunnelling entanglement teleportation system powered by a dark energy fusion reactor and a penthouse-like office at the pinnacle of the towering structure.

When this Citadel was destroyed all contact with the Combine Capital millions of lightyears away had been severed in a fleeting instant of bright light and roaring explosions.

However, the possibility of re-establishing that connection, retaking control of Romania and crushing the radical human uprising before it evolved into a devastatingly powerful mutation had existed in the infant superportal, created by the insanely large amount of dark energy that had been released when the Citadel had been destroyed.

Of course, not only had the human Resistance proven to be much better equipped and _much _more intelligent than the Combine had first thought by launching a rocket derived from blueprints of the Titan II-class of ICBM and closing the superportal, but also dealing catastrophic amounts of damage to the Universal Union Capital also.

The Combine Empire had been horrified at this unprecedented turn of events. For the first time in history, the inhabitants of an invaded planet had dealt an almost cataclysmic amount of damage to the force on the planet in _twenty years_. Not only that, but they had managed to cut off any possible way of reinstating the original Combine Administration on their planet by both closing the superportal _and _massacring a large percentage of the population on the Combine Capital at the same time.

But then, not a week later, a signal went out from somewhere in the Arctic regions of the planet proclaiming some sort of parasitical robotic horde had been released on the planet.

It had given a strange feeling of relief, while at the same time caused great pain. It meant that the planet Earth would be wiped completely clean of all life — native and Combine — except on a cellular level. This artificial intelligence would expand until it had taken complete control of the planet's inhabitants and turned them into slaves.

Slaves with no way off their planet.

Thus Earth had been officially declared the most disastrous failure in the history of the Universal Union.

Nobody had ever expected to hear from it again.

But they did.

Five months later, the Advisors on Trysik received a single text-based message sent from within fifty kilometres of the signal sent out by the AI horde the year before. After reading it, they had taken action and sent a team of converted Phyx on the slow trip to Earth, to do the only thing they were good for:

Resurrection of the dead.

—

The five Phyx were seated on one side of a small wooden table, sitting in uncomfortable metal chairs in a room that was only slightly warmer than the blizzard outside. Around them stood a group of ten guards, and one senior officer sitting opposite them, his gloved hands clasped together. "We are extremely glad that you have graced us with your presence here," he began humbly, looking up at all of them with his masked face, "and we would like to inquire of you any news that you have concerning the situation that the Universal Union is in at the moment."

All five of the Phyx answered in eerie unison, their voices a chilling chorus of somewhat ominous emotion. "The Capital of the Universal Union suffered fatal losses in excess of twenty billion when the rocket-propulsion system of the human Resistance detonated in high orbit above the planet."

"_Shit..._" someone whispered from behind the seated assembly.

The officer at the table bowed his head in remorse, "I see. Do you have anything else to report?"

Again, the five spoke simultaneously. "Since the Capital was attacked, the Combine Empire has been reduced to independent administration by each planet's Advisors and a replacement has not yet been selected. The Universal Union is also currently in no position to give any sort of militant assistance whatsoever."

"When did you last receive word from the Universal Union?"

"The stealth carrier capital ship we were onboard during our voyage here was always in contact with the capital of Trysik. What we have told you was the most recent news we received before we disembarked, and we acquired it approximately one and a half hours before our dropship was deployed."

The officer put a hand to his covered forehead. Things weren't going so well. "Are there any orders for us?"

"We were asked to suggest you prepare for evacuation from the planet."

The officer's head snapped up sharply, looking at the pale gathering before him. "Evacuation?" he stood up, looking down at the seated Phyx. "Evacuation?! Such a thought is unprecedented! Never before in history has an invading force that has taken control of a planet had to evacuate it!"

"The idea of an enslaved race successfully damaging the Capital so significantly that it became unfit to serve as the epicentre of Combine Administration is also unheard of, Major General." The Phyx replied calmly. "But such has come to pass. Are you willing to allow the human race the opportunity to crush you, as it has already proven it can?"

The general scanned his eyes from one end of the table to the other, furious at the thought. "Are you telling me that you were suggested this by the Universal Union?"

"Exactly."

The Major General exhaled loudly through his respirator, sitting back down. "Right. When will you be able to give news back that we will _not _be leaving the arrogant bastards on this planet with a feeling of victory?"

A pause from the thinly clothed company gave the general a foreboding feeling of dread. "Well?"

"When we said we had been requested to suggest you prepare for evacuation, the optional factor was not evacuation. The optional factor was _preparing _for the evacuation that will take place in approximately eight months."

The general's enraged visage was thankfully hidden from everyone, though all the people present could tell — and in fact, all of the Combine guards present were — infuriated at this information. "Are you all telling me that the Universal Union has already _decided _to evacuate us from the planet?"

"Correct, Major General." The Phyx answered, their tones veiling the slight feeling of anxiety they had resulting from the sight of the general's hands shaking. Evidently, he was not very happy with the news.

He stood up again, but this time it was suddenly and violently. "So..." he whispered, taking a very slow step to the side of his chair with his hands clasped behind his back, "the Universal Union has resolved that we have failed our mission?"

The Phyx did not answer. The Major General did not ask for one, merely continued his monologue in a sinister whisper. "They have made a choice without even considering that this revolution has only caused minor damage to the overall force on the planet?" Suddenly, he spun around and kicked the metal chair he had been sitting in, sending it flying through the air before slamming into the wall with a resounding _clang. _"That is _bullshit!_" he yelled, glaring at the Phyx from behind his mirrored lenses. "We are deemed inadequate to stop this Resistance, all because of a _single major attack _on the Capital taking place a mere fortnight after the inhabitants began their uprising?"

"Major General, we have to agree with the Advisors in this situation," the Phyx interjected calmly, "since you have not yet crushed this Resistance, despite the fact you have head more than a year to do so."

"Irrelevant!" the general snapped back, slamming his gloved fists down on the table. "They have not had any considerable successes since! There is only one place on this forsaken planet that has been retaken by the human race and it is only because of the legendary Dr. Freeman, anticitizen one."

"Yes, we were informed of the notorious Dr. Freeman in your message. Are we correct in assuming he is..." they paused before speaking again, as if they took delight in the next word, "_dead_?"

The general snorted, his irritation still fresh. "One of them is. We still haven't got the faintest clue how there can possibly be _two _of them — if both really are legitimate — and the entire force that attacked White Forest base in Romania was eradicated by a Croatian fighter squadron so... well, dead men tell no tales, I guess."

The Phyx's dull eyes seemed to light up at the mention of death. "Are we also correct in assuming you require our... _talents_?"

The general looked at them, nodding slowly. "Yes, actually. In fact, we can begin whenever you are ready."

"Excellent." The Phyx all stood in unison, their eyes glistening in excitement. "If it pleases you, we would like to be taken to the body immediately."

The general nodded again. "OK. You four," he pointed at a group of guards behind the Phyx, "take them to the corpse. I'll be joining you in a few moments."

The guards nodded agreement, and they exited with the five aliens. After they had left, the general looked at where his chair had been and sighed deeply. "If we're going to be evacuated..." he muttered, looking up at the remaining guards slowly, "...then we'd better make sure we drive this planet into the ground before we are."

—

"This man..." the Phyx observed, "he is in military uniform."

The general nodded, looking at the body lying in the transparent vacuum-sealed coffin. They were standing in a subterranean room, covered in brightly lit white walls. The floor was a very light grey colour and it was completely made of metal plating. The whole room was empty, save for a collection of machines in one corner and the large see-through rectangular prism in the middle of the room.

Inside this sealed container was a body, in the same condition it was the day it was killed. The man was lying on his back, blood covering the top of his shoulders and the back of his neck. A single bullet had been found in the back of his head.

"He is human," the Phyx continued, looking at the general, "and you saved his corpse. For what reason?"

The general chuckled, "Gordon Freeman is the reason. Witnesses saw the two brawling it out in the courtyard. This guy got the jump on him, apparently dived behind some crates and that was it, Freeman shot him in the head before he hit the ground. For some strange reason, the three witnesses remember opening fire at Freeman but don't actually remember seeing him escape. He just... well, disappeared."

"What is unusual about this man's death then?"

"Humans haven't killed each other since we turned up." The general explained bluntly. "And this guy's wearing a uniform that hasn't existed for twenty or so years."

The Phyx looked back at the body, noticing it was clad in a dark brown gasmask, military green combat webbing and urban camouflage shirt and pants. "Yes, he is." They agreed.

"You guys know about the Black Mesa Incident, don't you?"

The Phyx looked back at the general. "We are not the most knowledgeable on the topic, but we have heard about it. Who hasn't in the Universal Union?"

"Well, from what we know some special forces unit got sent in to see what was going on with the facility. We assume that this guy was part of that unit, and that he had a bone to pick with Freeman."

"Freeman's reputation is because of the Black Mesa Incident and his survival, yes?"

"Well, I hate to say it, but his current reputation is because of the amazing talent he has at killing us. But no, the reason he was famous among the human race when he first turned up last year was solely because of what he'd done at Black Mesa."

"So... Freeman killed this man's comrades to escape Black Mesa?"

"We think so. I mean, it's not like there was anything else Freeman could've done to piss this guy off."

"But why did you keep his body?"

"Because..." the general eyed them cryptically, "... he almost got what he wanted."

That told the Phyx everything they needed to know. "What do you want us to tell him, once we have raised him?"

The general chuckled again. "I don't know, say you're gods or something, divine host that want him to kill Gordon Freeman."

"Will he believe it?"

The general shrugged, "Black Mesa got nuked, people. If he somehow got out of the facility then I'd be surprised if some divine person _wasn't _watching over him. Then again, that means someone might be watching over Gordon Freeman too. Someone who could make _two _of him."

The Phyx nodded once more, looking back at the body. "Bring him out."

**6:47 PM, White Forest**

The fact that White Forest base was still operational was a perfect testament to the undying will of the human race.

In the first month of the Uprising, it had been heavily attacked by Combine forces. One such assault was carried out by a force of around twelve thousand foot soldiers and about fifty aircraft and it resulting in a devastatingly high number of Resistance casualties and partial destruction of the base itself. Even now part of the mountain lay in the steep and narrow valley far below, along with large amounts of concrete debris that had come down with it when the inadvertent avalanche had occurred.

About half an hour after this happened, a squadron of Croatian fighters had bombed the Combine force inside the remains of these bunkers. Having already been both damaged and uncovered by the collapse, these bombs eradicated the majority of the Combine attackers before most the soldiers down there even saw them.

The parts of the base at the front of its perimeter had lain in ruins. Trees had been toppled, grass and bloody soil had been tossed up everywhere, mangled metal and burning corpses had been strewn across the churned up peak of the mountain and pillars of smoke had ascended into the cloudless heavens.

Now, a year and a bit later, what could be repaired had been. The destroyed bunkers had been rebuilt — even if they were somewhat smaller due to the fact part of the mountain was gone — and the bodies had either been buried in a forested part of the mountain — Resistance losses — or at the foot of the mountain around a large sign reading 'these are the graves of those who ascended this mountain with hostile intent'.

Of course, almost all twelve thousand soldiers had been buried here. The graves were spread throughout half the valley, all in a line leading to the sloping path that lead up to the peak and, ultimately, the base itself.

It hadn't been attacked since. Not by land, not by air and... well, not by sea either.

Things had returned to normal. Well, to be more precise, things now felt as normal as was possible fighting for freedom in an alien-invader-induced dystopia. But this had become the normal for the people at White Forest for almost a year now. There was no more going to work, watching a football or baseball game, spending quality time with your kids 'normal' anymore. You were lucky if you got to _see _your children or any of your family.

And that was the reason the people at White Forest were fighting. It wasn't just for themselves, it wasn't just to manifest their hatred into the bullet-riddled corpse of a Combine soldier. It was for the human race.

So that maybe, just maybe, people could see their families again.

—

A single booted foot hit the gravel, crunching as the owner put their other foot down and stood up, stretching from the time they'd spent in that car. About a metre away, an identical pair of crunches sounded as another person removed themselves from the vehicle. Neither pairs of feet moved for a few moments, before one of them started walking toward the base with the other pair following closely behind.

The two pairs of shoes made their way over to the rebuilt entrance to the subterranean parts of White Forest comprised of a collection of buried bunkers, offices, small laboratories and two large missile silos. They'd just been out searching some of the more secluded parts of Romania for small Combine units that might have set up makeshift outposts in these areas. They'd found nothing, but then again they hadn't expected to.

Besides, the Romanian Resistance was sending a company of soldiers and its three stolen Hunter-Choppers to help out the Resistance in Ukraine — one of the countries bordering Romania in the northeast. This unit of soldiers was scheduled to be leaving White Forest around noon tomorrow and were estimated to arrive one and a half hours after departure.

The pairs of shoes casually continued their walk toward the reconstructed White Forest bunkers, a guard outside one of the salvaged double blast-doors nodding at them in acknowledgement. "Evening, you two."

They returned the greeting, heading through the doorway as the blast-doors slid back on their metal guides, the pneumatic parts hissing as they worked. The two stepped inside the bunker, looking around the wide hallway-esque area they had found themselves in. The lighting gave the crème painted walls a familiarly warm light yellow tint, complementing the suitably forest-green paint lining the lower section of the walls. On the other side of the bunker was a collection of crates filled with munitions and the like, along with a few rebels scurrying around so as to complete whatever tasks they had been entrusted with by — most likely, anyway — Dr. Magnusson himself.

One of the soldiers noticed them. "Ah, Dr. Freeman, Alyx," he grinned, greeting them with a relaxed nod, "glad to see you're both alright. Well," he corrected himself with a brief laugh, "apart from you, Dr. Freeman. How's that wound healing up?"

The day previously, Gordon had encountered a somewhat vicious pack of Antlions in the mountains around White Forest. One of them had slit his left cheek from top to bottom, but thankfully it hadn't been deep enough to cut into his mouth. He'd returned to White Forest with a gloved hand dripping blood all over the concrete floor. Dr. Taylor had fixed it up right, but it had started scarring already.

Gordon smiled gently. "Hasn't been irritating me since this morning. Barely even notice it now."

The rebel chuckled. "Good to hear it. Well, I'd better leave you to your business. Doubtless Magnusson will want a full report."

Alyx laughed. "You got that right," she agreed.

The rebel smiled, giving them a short wave before he headed off. Alyx and Gordon continued on their way to Magnusson's office per usual.

—

By the time the two had arrived at Dr. Magnusson's office, something else had happened that had rendered the importance of their report null and void because the Gman was there waiting for them. Magnusson noticed them entering and gave a sharp nod in their direction. "Huh," he muttered impatiently, "you've finally graced us with your presence, have you?"

The two ignored him, as was their duty when Magnusson was in a pissy mood. Any kind of indignant response would be met with eternal damnation, or so he seemed to believe.

Barney, who was sitting in one of the two couches in the office, gave them a friendly wave. "How's it going?"

"Yeah, good," Alyx replied with a smile as she sat down, "just got back, actually."

"So what's this about?" Gordon asked, looking at the Gman as he sat himself down on one of the couches with Alyx.

The Gman smiled. "Unfortunately, my time of... relaxation has been ended."

"What, why?" Gordon demanded with a frown, leaning back against the old cushions of the couch.

"The Fissionist requested I return to our Council Chambers to discuss something approximately twenty minutes ago," the Gman explained calmly. "The length of this absence is indefinite, thus I cannot be certain as to how this will affect our attack. I may be back before tomorrow, but the Fissionists may require something of me."

"Didn't they tell you what it was for?" Alyx asked.

The Gman shook his head. "They merely insisted I depart for the Council Chambers as soon as possible. Since I do not want to waste precious time, I would ask that I be allowed to take my leave soon."

Magnusson nodded from behind him. "You can go whenever it suits you."

The Gman turned to him, smiling. "Thank you, Dr. Magnusson. I apologise for any inconvenience that may result from this situation."

Dr. Magnusson waved the apology away, "don't mention it, Gman. After all, we have no business arguing with the Fissionist Faction."

Giving a thankful nod, the Gman turned back to the others, extending a hand to Gordon. "Until we meet again, Dr. Freeman."

Gordon stood, shaking the hand firmly. "Same here, Gman."

The Gman smiled, giving his hand to Alyx. "Ms. Vance."

Alyx smiled brightly, taking the hand. "Take care of yourself."

Finally, Barney shook his hand. "See ya later, Gman."

The Gman gave a final wave to everyone, "I trust that you will be successful in the attack tomorrow." He added finally, before he left the room.

And White Forest.

And Romania.

And the planet Earth.

And the dimensions of the space-time continuum that we are familiar with.

—

"Fellow Members." the Gman looked around at the glowing suited people seated all around him. He himself had taken his spot on the ring of elevated seating that surrounded the room, a comfortable position that proclaimed the person seated atop it deserved respect.

"Member Eight." They answered in perfect, ethereal unison.

"If you would proceed with your explanation as to why I have been called here?"

The First Member cleared his throat. "Member Eight, at exactly 6:24:32 PM European Standard Time a Combine stealth carrier entered high orbit above the planet Earth. At exactly 6:26:12 PM European Standard Time a single dropship was deployed from the underside of this stealth carrier. Inside this dropship were five Phyx that we estimate departed from the Combine-ruled planet Trysik seven months ago. They landed approximately ten minutes ago, at the Combine correctional facility Inferno Abyss in Northern Sweden."

The Gman nodded slowly. "Is that all you wish to inform me of?"

"Yes."

"Have we decided on a course of action?"

"No."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"Member Eight, are you aware of the abilities the specially-trained inhabitants of Trysik possess?"

"The Phyx?"

"Correct."  
"Are they not infamous for their advanced knowledge in the field of resurrection?"

"Again, you are correct."

The Gman paused uncertainly. "You are suggesting they are at Inferno Abyss to raise the dead?"

"Yes, but we are all in accord that there is a specific body they are focusing on, given the location that their dropship landed at."

The Gman stopped dead. _Inferno Abyss... _"They are attempting to resurrect Corporal Adrian Shephard?"

"That is our hypothesis."

"But for what purpose?" The Gman inquired. "That is the question we should be pondering."

"We already have a theory," Member One continued. "It involves using Corporal Adrian Shephard to destroy Dr. Gordon Freeman. The Combine stationed at the base have undoubtedly decided that he had bad history with Dr. Freeman, since humans have not killed each other nor worn his uniform for twenty years. His Marine uniform would have told them he had most likely been at Black Mesa during the resonance cascade and therefore Gordon Freeman probably killed his comrades there. As we are all aware, Adrian Shephard had a lust for revenge. The Combine doubtlessly realised this and therefore decided that he would be a prime candidate to send after Gordon Freeman."

"And Corporal Shephard almost succeeded in killing Dr. Freeman, didn't he?" the Gman concluded slowly.

"Correct."

The Gman stroked his chin. "Members, I request I returned to Earth to prevent this from taking place."

The Members looked at each other, their expressions not exactly encouraging the Gman to feel any better about the situation. "What is it?"

The First Member looked over at him. "Member Eight. Approximately three minutes ago, Adrian Shephard rose from the dead."

* * *

Well, people, things are going to get better from here on out. I'm actually surprised at how quickly I came up with an idea, but it just seemed so good that I decided to use it. Of course, it needed a bit of work and one critical part of it made it necessary I separate this fic into two parts - don't worry, it'll all be right here in this fic, not two separate ones. The Pursuit of Vengeance was selected for a reason that should become apparent soon - if it isn't already.

Next chapter (hopefully): super-shooty action that you've come to expect from me.


	3. Two: Duplicity

**OK, people might have missed this, so I'm going to tell you right now that the original chapter two has been added to the END of chapter one, after the part where the Phyx ask the Major General to bring Shephard's body out of the sealed container. It then cuts to White Forest and... yeah, it's kind of mandatory stuff so read it if you haven't.**

**-=Chapter Two: Duplicity=-**

**6:49 PM, Inferno Abyss**

_..._

_..._

_..._

_?_

_ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!_

_OW OW OW OW OW OW! SON OF A BITCH!_

_Dammit, that hurts! What the hell is going on? Geez, what is this?_

_Ugh, my head... the back of my head..._

_I got shot... _

_What is going on? Why am I feeling this? Why... why do I feel alive? _

_Someone... please tell me... ugh..._

—

If his stomach wasn't completely empty, he would have thrown up. Multiple times. His body had not functioned for over a year, the back of his head had been blown off and he had been buried in the snow for a few hours before he was moved to... wherever he was now.

His eyes stung like crazy and it didn't help that everything was white — or the colour white was when wearing green lenses over your eyes. Of course, maybe his eyes hadn't adjusted yet. Then again, he had no idea how long he'd been dead for and he had no idea how he could possibly be alive so there were a lot of unanswered questions besides the ones that seemed most obvious to him.

"_Corporal Shephard, can you hear us?"_

There was a voice inside him head.

Shephard blinked rapidly, slowly raising his rigid arms to his eyes. He rubbed them vigorously, trying to clear his vision. It worked, to a degree. Lines became sharper, shadows set in. Now everything looked like they were real, instead of some kind of blank canvas with green tint. He tried speaking, but his voicebox didn't feel like working just yet so he was able to splutter some kind of incoherent gargle in reply.

"_Corporal Shephard, if you can hear us please raise your arms."_

Shephard's brain wasn't in the mood to argue or question whoever these people were so he obliged, raising his arms weakly so that his wrists hung limply in the air.

"_Thank you, Corporal Shephard. Are you capable of speech at the moment?"_

Shephard tried, and succeeded. Barely. His mouth was drier than a grain of sand inside the sun so all he was able to get out was an incredibly hoarse whisper of 'yes'.

"_Excellent. We assume that you are quite confused at the moment, since your mind has accepted the fact that you are dead. We are saddened to inform you that this is _not _an afterlife, but rather the universe that you have lived all your life. We are the Phyx, divine host who have destined you for greatness, Corporal Shephard. Your name will be remembered among the stars in the annals of universal history."_

Shephard's brain went into overdrive at that point. It demanded that his mouth start working immediately so that it could vocally relay the questions his brain was silently asking them. There was one thing he was thinking about, and that was a possible connection: He remembered that guy in the suit telling him that his _employers_ had decided to set him free after twenty years in solitary confinement because they wanted him to kill Gordon Freeman. Apparently, these guys also wanted him for something and since he could only think of one possibility...

"Are you guys his 'employers?'" he asked quietly, letting out a hacking cough.

"_We beg your pardon, Corporal Shephard. Who are you talking about?"_

Shephard didn't consider the chance that these two were unrelated since his brain was still walking up from a year long sleep, so he opted to elaborate. "The guy in the suit, the guy who told me to kill Gordon Freeman... is he working for you?"

There was a pause so short it was almost undetectable. _"We apologise, Corporal Shephard. Having made clearer your explanation we are now sure of what you are trying to convey to use. Yes, we are his employer."_

"Good," Shephard grunted feebly.

—

Not far away, in another room entirely, stood the five Phyx with eight or so guards. They were communicating telepathically and relaying everything they said to the Combine after doing so. They could hear Shephard, as everything he said was being picked up by speakers.

"_Good," _the man grunted weakly. The Phyx looked over at the Combine guards, who nodded. "Tell him you want him to kill Gordon Freeman."

The Phyx had, up to now, said nothing about killing Gordon Freeman, so they did. Closing their dull eyes once more, they continued their conversation with Corporal Shephard. After a few moments, they opened their eyes and listened for his response.

"_Uh... OK."_

At the sound of this reply, the Phyx smiled tightly, their bony faces lighting up with malicious delight. _And now, _they thought in unison, _our time has come._

Instantly, all five of them spun around to face the guards and charged at them and began swinging heavy blows at the surprised soldiers. The facade of frailty that the Phyx had shown off was completely obliterated when the first guard's entire skull exploded against the wall from a single punch to the mouth. Within a few seconds, six soldiers had been killed. The remaining two finally brought their weapons up and tried to open fire on them, but their guns took their orders as mere suggestions that they decided to ignore by conveniently jamming up. The Phyx, of course, were merciless. Their bodies were flattened against the walls, along with half their insides, before they even realised the mutinous aliens weren't dead.

All this took just over four seconds.

The Phyx smiled again, one of them jamming the door locked. Then they closed their eyes again.

—

Their message had come rather unexpectedly, Shephard had to admit. They didn't even seem to be the same people, but what they were was substantially more interesting.

"_Shephard, head out the door and try and get some weapons. The Combine cannot hear us. We will give you more information after we have dispatched of them. If you understand, reply the affirmative."_

To be honest, Shephard hadn't expected to still be at a Combine base. Judging by the temperature, it was probably the same place that he died. Right now, though, he needed to focus on the situation. He had people who were talking to him in his mind and they were willing to help him escape. He didn't have many other options so he replied the affirmative. "Uh... OK."

After waiting a few seconds and not getting a response, Shephard decided to head for the door. His legs were really tense, as was to be expected, so he shook them out and jogged on the spot for a few moments.

"_We have dispatched of the Combine guards." _They explained about two seconds later. _"Are you out of the room yet?"_

"Hold up a second..." Shephard grumbled, "I've been dead for a year so I'm not exactly in the best of shape."

"_Apologies, Corporal Shephard. We would like to advise you that once you leave the room, you will no longer be able to talk to us as the speakers we are hearing you from are only in this room. We will continue to give you directions as you progress."  
_"Alright," Shephard replied, heading for the door. "OK... opening the door..."

Pulling the door open, Shephard was met with a thin, dimly lit hallway in complete contrast to the large bright room he'd just been in. Without pause, he headed down the hallway.

"_We assume you want some answers," _the voices continued, _"concerning everything in general. For starters, we are known as the Phyx. We are not really divine host, rather trained inhabitants of the Combine-enslaved planet Trysik. We are known for our psionic abilities and those concerning resurrection of the dead. We have been planning to rebel for almost seven months and finally our plans have come to fruition. Since we assumed we would be needed to raise a certain individual from the dead we were hoping that we would have someone to help us. Of course, we hadn't really expected this to happen since we doubted the Combine would be resurrecting a human being."_

Shephard took all this in, wondering how many planets the Combine had taken over. Were they some sort of universal superpower? Did they have control of everyone save for a few species? How many species of alien were there? He couldn't ask any of these questions, so he just hoped they'd be answered eventually.

What he was confused about mist was the thought of being 'someone to help them'. What did that mean? Did they want to form some kind of mercenary unit?

"_Once we have met up and escaped, we plan to join the human Resistance. We have heard much good news about them, especially the damage they have done to the Combine homeworld. Since we resurrected you we hope you can lead us to them."_

Shephard thought about that comment. _Lead them to the Resistance? _Shephard had no idea there even was a human resistance, let alone a successful one. The problem was that Gordon Freeman was probably very high up in whatever hierarchy existed in it. Besides, that woman he'd killed had probably been part of it and if he hated Freeman for killing his comrades then he could see how they would hate him for doing the same to one of theirs.

There was an enmity between them that could never be settled if both of them were still alive. They both wanted each other dead.

But there was one thing that gave him confidence. Even though these people were not gods, he was pretty sure there was some sort of divinity watching over him. That suited man, for instance, had seemed pretty powerful and he'd wanted Gordon Freeman dead. These people didn't want him dead, though, but they'd raised him.

Was there somebody up there trying to tell him that Gordon Freeman had to die and he was the one destined to do it?

So Shephard made a decision.

He was going to find Gordon Freeman, kill him and fulfil his destiny, no matter what these naysayers wanted. He was certain he would succeed, because he was been watched over by the deities.

—

They were standing around the basement, waiting to let the Phyx in to escort the dead soldier out. Of course, they'd been supposed to come about five minutes ago so they were somewhat confused as to what was going on.

"Think we should check it out?" one soldier asked, breaking a long silence.

His partner shook his head. "What do you think is happening?"

"I don't know," the first soldier shrugged. "This guy was doing a good job of killing our people before Freeman killed him. Having a killer behind these doors isn't very comforting."

The second guard snorted. "Oh, so you want to get away from here in case he tries to kill you? He's been dead for over a year and he's got no weapons. What's the worst he could do, if he even came out?"

The first soldier sighed, "forget it."

They returned to silence again.

About half a minute later, Shephard kicked the door open. It swung backwards heavily, colliding with the soldier standing on the left side of the doorway as he made to attack whoever it was. The door instantly crushed his ribs and knocked him a few metres away, while Shephard grabbed the other soldier in a headlock, punched him multiple times in the face before wrestling his gun from his hands and shooting him square in the forehead. His body went limp as Shephard let it hit the ground and fired a second round into the felled soldier's chin. The small-calibre bullet wasn't very strong, but it didn't need to be since the chin is the most unprotected part of human and, assumedly, Combine heads. He was dead in an instant.

Shephard quickly raided the body of his first kill, finding two spare magazines and quickly placing them in his combat webbing.

And that was the horrific realisation hit him like one of the bullets he'd just fired: his PCV was gone.

"What the hell...?" he whispered to himself, quickly running for cover to his right. Without his PCV, he was basically meat with a gun. Meat that carked it with three or four bullets to the torso. _There has to be some sort of armour around here... _Shephard thought desperately. Suddenly, he snapped his head back over to the two dead soldiers on the ground. They had padded body armour. Shephard smiled. Maybe things weren't going to be as difficult as he'd first thought.

—

Inferno Abyss, ever since its Combine occupation, had been something of an unusual place for the people in control there. It had only been taken early in the year of the Uprising, and in its estimated eighteen month of service to the invaders things had been happening that could be categorised into either cursed or extremely fortunate.

For starters, the poor souls there were cold. Nobody liked the cold, except maybe the few humans who lived up there. Because of this, the guards were reluctant to go outside when they could stay inside the slightly warmer facility that at least kept the wind out.

On the other hand, they'd also done a great deal of use to the Combine forces on Earth, since they'd constructed the text-communication machine that had taken six months to build and less than a second to both attain success and break.

So the base had experienced spells of both unfortunate and notable events. It's just a pity that two of the latter were having Gordon Freeman come and beat the shit out of some guys there and, as was now to be demonstrated, having the Gman come and beat the _everything_ out of everyone there, specifically Corporal Shephard.

He didn't come with any warning. Nobody had any idea he was even there until he killed the first men.

All he did was calmly walk up the giant stairs leading to the dark and snowy courtyard, stand at the top and cause a towering pillar of flame to explode from the middle of the courtyard with a deafening roar.

Guards immediately ran to the courtyard, their guns at the ready as the thick tower of fire thinned out, whisked away by the blizzard that was still raging. Through the snow and ashes now blowing in the strong winds, they spotted a silhouette that was barely visible against the evening darkness.

That was all they saw before their heads exploded, splattering the snow with blood and bits of plastic mask like thick shells of an egg. The man continued walking toward the lobby area of the facility, amidst the falling ashes. As he approached the small and now crimson soiled concrete staircase leading up to the building, he brushed any ashes that could have possibly landed on his fastidiously cleaned suit, despite the fact that they weren't there — like everything that the Gman didn't want on it.

The doors were average doors: thick, with a small slit of equally dense tinted glass. All this would have kept a whole squadron worth of assault rifles out, possibly even an RPG. Of course, comparing the Gman to a squadron of infantrymen with a portable rocket launcher for backup was like comparing a nuclear arsenal to a piece of blue cheese.

The door was not designed to defend against a thousand nuclear missiles, which was basically what was required of it when the Gman decided it needed to get out of the way.

As you might expect, it didn't stand a chance.

The lobby behind it was quite large, about ten metres between the door and the wall on the opposite side of the room. The door was sent flying from its frame with a simple hit from the Gman's palm, before it crashed into the far wall, embedded itself almost ten centimetres into the concrete before it finally fell out of its hole and hit the ground with a dull metallic clunk. The guards in the lobby — numbering four — had all had their limbs ripped off and used as crude clubs on each other before this crumpled piece of metal had settled on the solid floor.

—

The Phyx were trying to hack into the computer mainframe via a large console conveniently placed in the room they were holed up in so as to find Shephard and give him one-way directions. They'd been having some significant success until a red light blinked on and alarms started blaring. The Phyx immediately looked at the flashing warning on the console and tried to find out what was wrong. From what they could gather, they hadn't done anything but rather an unidentified hostile had apparently broken into the base and was now slaughtering the soldiers.

Things weren't going so well.

The Phyx decided to abandon all pretence of hiding away while giving instructions to the man they were hoping would guide them to salvation and instead fight their way to him. Quickly, they closed their eyes and contacted him.

—

Shephard was no stranger to flashing red lights and blaring klaxons but, like most things that had happened today, he hadn't been expecting to witness them. He opted to break into a sprint and open the door he'd been jogging towards because his soldier's brain was telling him the base was up a certain creek with no paddle at the moment.

After ramming the door open with a heavily padded shoulder, Shephard was able to kill two startled guards before the Phyx started talking to him. _"Corporal Shephard, someone has invaded the base and is now going about killing everybody. We are unsure of his motives but there is the possibility he is looking for you. Do not try and hide, just run."_

Since Shephard couldn't reply, he decided to listen to them and run.

—

"What the hell is going on?" the Major General demanded, running through the corridor as he flicked the safety catch off of his handgun.

"Somebody's broken in, sir," another officer explained as he and a group of others ran with the general, "we don't know who it is but they appear to have single-handedly smashed our doors down and mangled everybody in the lobby."

"You don't think these Phyx bastards arranged something, do you?" another officer asked, his voice conveying a hint of nervousness.

The general snorted dismissively. "Impossible. There's nobody on this planet that could have possibly been in contact with them. Besides, the human race wouldn't even consider an allegiance with anyone connected to the Combine Empire."

The group made their way out of the corridor by way of a thick metal door, which lead to the largest part of the base. It was basically the mess of Inferno Abyss, but only for the Combine staff. The thought of prisoners at this high-security facility having the chance to move around freely in a room roughly the size of two basketball courts was unimaginable, not to mention ridiculously stupid. As well as its size, it also contained a thin forest of pillars that helped to hold the roof up and would undoubtedly provide cover should the inmates somehow begin an uprising.

This large hall-type area was directly adjacent to the lobby, but there didn't appear to be anyone in there. Only blood and dismembered bodies on the far side of the giant room.

"Son of a bitch..." somebody whispered as they hurried for the lobby. They ducked low and ran hard, keeping their various smallarms down by their...

_BOOOOM!_

One of the pillar exploded suddenly, huge chunks of concrete debris flying into the walls and the floor, with smaller flecks and clouds of thin dust spraying all over the soldiers backs as they ran. A few of the soldiers glanced wildly around for the source, and briefly spotted a blurred blue figure among the pillars somewhere on the other side of the giant room.

And he was coming toward them fast.

Another pillar blasted outwards in a hail of both big and small bits of concrete detritus. One of the soldiers was crushed by a more generously sized chunk, his whole torso snapping neatly in half with a clear and sickening crack. By now, a few people had tried to shoot this fiend down as they charged for the doors but the effort was futile. Not only were they missing every shot but the bullets almost seemed to be angling _away _from their target.

By the time the general had reached the doors he had found something to be thankful about: the intruder had completely torn both lobby doors off, one of which was lying on the ground with four mutilated corpses. That meant he didn't have to worry about getting murdered when opening the doors. He simply charged on through, not even thinking about turning around.

As he exited the building with the few surviving men that had been accompanying him, the icy blizzard hit them like a hundred kilo weight. However, the general thought of this as a positive rather than a negative because the snow was falling so heavily and it was so thick that it would provide some visual cover as they trudged toward the small number of Hunter-Choppers they had there.

One soldier turned around after they'd been running for twenty seconds after leaving the lobby, and he noticed that there was nobody behind them. "I think we lost him!" he yelled into his radio, over the roaring whistle of the wind.

"Don't relax," the general replied bluntly, "because relaxed people are dead."

They made their way over to the other helipad the facility sported, this one occupied by two Hunter-Choppers whose glossy paint was heavily matted by the ferocity of the blizzard. Fortunately, the general and the three remaining men with him were able to get inside one and — very dangerously — get it to take off among the falling snow.

Fortunately for them, they escaped about four seconds before the main topside section of the base collapsed in a maelstrom of heavy snow, rumbling thunder from concrete debris and invisible dust.

The four officers watched the chaos from above, despite the fact that it was mostly obscured by the snow. "Dammit..." the general grunted, slumped in the helicopter's cabin. "There goes the facility. Who the hell was that guy?"

Nobody said anything. They just sat there, watching him. The pilot didn't have anything to offer either, he just focused on flying. "Do you think the Fissionists are taking advantage of our situation?" someone suggested quietly, his bowed head rising slightly.

The general bowed his own head. "I don't know, but if they have decided to intervene then... well, that evacuation is looking a lot brighter right now."

The Fissionist Faction: They were probably the only people in the universe that posed a real threat to the Combine. Sure, insurrections and revolutions were always annoying, but only once in history had such an attempt actually had palpable success — that of the human race. The Fissionist Faction had appeared about half a century after the Universal Union had begun its reign in the known universe. They were the forefront of Combine opposition and it was practically comprised only of its Members. Of course, they had a large infantry in their single arm of their armed forces, but it was nothing to match the almost entirely militant nature of the Universal Union and infantry was made up of unimportant mortals fighting as pawns for those higher up the military hierarchy.

The Members were the issue.

If one had to make a bet as to who would win in a battle between a Fissionist Member and a field army of four corps, two being standard infantry, the other two being heavy weapons infantry, a regiment of battle tanks and five hundred units of artillery, you'd be labelled batshit bonkers if you chose the army.

Despite this unbelievable truth, the Fissionist Faction was not comprised of invincible deities that fought for justice. Rather, they were simply immortal. Immortal is not synonymous with invincible, and in this case that meant they weren't susceptible to death but they were still able to be killed. The thing about the Fissionists was they got tired. There is no physical way one cannot begin to succumb to fatigue after fighting one hundred thousand soldiers and ripping every last one of them limb from limb without rest. Their abilities were not derived from bottomless pits of unrivalled power, and that was how they could be killed. Wear them the hell out.

And that was what scared the Combine the most. The Fissionists, while infinitely and incomparably smaller than the Universal Union, were only defeatable after they had been worn out. It was impossible to kill a Fissionist without first having a bazillion of your people sacrificed so as to wear it out.

—

The Gman brushed himself off, looking at the gigantic pile of rubble all around him. It was pathetic that it had taken the destruction of a mere three pillars to fell the facility. At least, most of it anyway. The underground parts were probably mostly unaffected and some topside buildings hadn't collapsed.

Shephard could be anywhere inside the base.

And he wasn't leaving until he found him body and killed him. That man had been damn close to getting Gordon, so close that the Gman had actually been surprised. Fortunately, Gordon had killed him in the end.

But now, this man's fury was not just out of respect to his deceased comrades. It was now a sense of pride also, to kill the man that had slain him once before.

_Hell hath no fury like a rich man that wants revenge,_ the Gman chuckled at the thought,_ clearly, the man who said this had never met someone who had been killed and then given a chance to avenge themself._


	4. Three: Admonitions

**-=Chapter Three: Admonitions=-**

**Rostock, state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern,** **Germany, 9:16 PM**

The city of Rostock had not been selected by the four Swedish Combine officers for any notable reasons. They didn't select it because it had a strong Combine administration or the slightly nicer temperatures — eight degrees celsius was pleasantly warm compared to the minus nine of Inferno Abyss — or because it had been partially destroyed twice in the past century, one of which was because of the human race. No, the reason the Major General and the three other senior officers had landed in the large paved area formerly known as the Neuer Markt, or New Market, was because Germany was one of the closest major-Combine countries to Sweden and because Rostock was its most northern city.

By the time the Hunter-Chopper had landed in the market place, soldiers had already gathered to greet the occupants. When the Major General disembarked from the helicopter, he was met with German Combine soldiers respectfully standing to attention. As the others also got off the chopper, one of the soldiers approached the general. "Welcome to Rostock, Major General," he greeted the officer politely, "I am First Lieutenant 112829. For what reason have you come to this city?"

The Major General took note of the officer's manners, a welcome change from the subtle bitterness caused by long shifts in the cold at Inferno Abyss. "I have news from the Universal Union," he explained, "given to us by the Phyx, who arrived two hours ago."

The First Lieutenant nodded. "I see. Well, if you will follow me, I will take you to my commanders."

—

The four Swedish officers seated themselves at a surprisingly beautiful mahogany table that looked like it had been kept in a vacuum-sealed container for twenty years, facing three similarly clothed officers wearing dark grey instead of the light grey and white of Combine snow camouflage. The room actually had heat, thank goodness, and that made things a lot nicer.

"So," one of the German officers leaned forward in his chair, his insignia showing that he was a five star general, "one of my lieutenants tells me that the Phyx have finally arrived and brought news from the Universal Union, which you are about to tell me."

The Major General nodded. "I'm afraid it isn't very good news, though."

The German general nodded also. "Well, continue."

"The Phyx told us that the Universal Union has selected to evacuate the Combine force here on Earth in about eight months," the Swedish general explained, "and that the rocket the Romanian Resistance launched actually detonated in high orbit above the Capital and did devastating damage to it, and therefore it has become insufficient as the nexus for Combine administration. All planets are now independently led by their Advisors."

"Dammit," the German general swore angrily. "For what reason was this evacuation decided?"

"The Phyx told us that we have been deemed... incapable of dealing with the human resistance by allowing the Capital to be damaged so."

The German general appeared equally infuriated at this decision as everyone at Inferno Abyss had. "And... and they _told _you this?" he practically spluttered.

"Indirectly, yes." The Swedish general agreed. "They asked me if we were prepared to allow the human race a chance to destroy us _as they have already proved they can._"

"Well, well how did you respond to this completely incorrect assumption?" the German general demanded, his mirrored lenses focused directly on his Swedish comrade.

"I asked them when it would be possible to tell the Universal Union that we will not be leaving Earth."

"And?"

"And they simply answered that it is non-optional. We are being evacuated, whether we like it or not."

The German officers just sat there in silence, looking at their fellow men that had brought such bad tidings. "So we have no other option?" one officer inquired slowly.

The Swedish general nodded calmly. "There is also... some other news."

"Yes?" the German general asked, not expecting anything good. Which was fortunate for him, because he wasn't going to be disappointed.

"T-the Phyx, it seems..." the Swedish general paused tensely, "the Phyx have apparently betrayed us."

Silence. "How so...?" the German general pressed slowly.

"They... they came to resurrect the human that was trying to kill Anticitizen One," the Swedish general continued, "but then they locked the room they were inside and the guards outside reported that they heard blood splattering."

"Son of a bitch..." the German general whispered. "And what of the man they rose?"

"We don't know, but he has no weapons so he can do little damage." The Swedish general paused, as if his statement had reminded him of something. "There... there is one more thing of importance..."

"What?" the German general snapped, quite unhappily.

"We have also realised the possibility of Fissionist intervention."

That was the icing on the cake. Except it was iced urine on a crap-fudge cake. "How do you know this?"

"A single man broke into Inferno Abyss," the Swedish general explained quietly. "He completely mutilated everyone he came across and destroyed most of the facility on the surface. We escaped mere moments before the buildings caved in."

"Did you see this man?"

"We didn't get a clear view of him," the Swedish general continued, "because we were running."

The general bowed his head. "We need to inform the Advisors of this. Surely they know of the situation concerning the Capital?"

All Advisors were telepathically linked to each other and the rulers of the Combine Capital, the Prime Advisors. Therefore, they could send information to each other via their cybernetic implants but they could only relay it to each other.

"Most likely," the Swedish general agreed, "but they won't yet know about the Phyx's arrival and their betrayal, or the planned evacuation."

The German general nodded. "I will contact our Advisor, tell him what you have told me. Then I will have it relay this information to the other Advisors on this planet. Then we will decide upon a course of action."

The Swedish general nodded, standing up. "Very well. If possible, could we stay here for as long as necessary?"

The German general gestured warmly with his hands. "Certainly, I will have one of my lieutenants show you to the barracks."

—

It was a peaceful spot, and the people there deserved the serene atmosphere the thick forest provided. The sheer number of graves there was enough to move anyone, but specifically because both Dr. Eli Vance and Gordon Freeman were buried there.

There was a small dirt path that led to their graves, and the others spread out behind them. It was one of the few places the Combine hadn't damaged in their full-scale attack the year before, and thus both the trees and the lush grass flourished and blew gently in the cool November night.

There was a soft crunching sound coming from somewhere among the trees, as a shadowy figure moved along the path, their steps slow and quiet. The crunching was due to the gentle steps being taken by the silhouette as they made their way over to the graves, holding something in their hands.

After reaching the two graves at the end of the path, the person knelt down before them and placed the items in their hands on the ground before the tombstones.

And then, the placidity of the cemetery was broken by the quiet sobs of a woman.

—

Shephard still had no idea what was going on, but it had sounded big. About two hours ago, there had been an almighty crashing sound from somewhere above him and everything had gone dark. He assumed that part of the facility had collapsed and that raised unfortunate implications: How was he going to get out now?

Since he didn't yet know who or, really, _what _had caused the noise he just decided to keep in mind that there was probably someone in what remained of the base — if indeed it had collapsed — that was trying to kill him.

So now, two hours later, he was walking around a dark room wearing slightly bloody body armour and holding a 9 millimetre USP Match handgun. The pistol's existence surprised him, actually, since the gun had been discontinued in 1999, two years before the Black Mesa Incident had sent the world to hell. Then again, he'd also seen people with the distinctive SPAS-12 pump action shotgun that had stopped being made a year later.

He remembered Gordon Freeman had been using an MP7 submachine gun, a weapon that was made only a few months before aliens invaded Earth. There was also that alien gun that shot lasers, but he didn't give a toss about that. What was really weird was how easy it seemed to be to get top-grade weapons like the MP7 when about a gazillion Kalashnikov rifles — both legit and equally good rip-offs — have been sent all over the world. Maybe it was because he was in Europe and that was where most of these guns were made. Or maybe it was because somebody knew where there had been a military armoury and there'd been a motherload of MP7's. Or maybe it was some completely arbitrary reason that didn't even matter so he should stop thinking about it and focus on his objective of not dying.

He was pretty sure he was getting closer to the surface now, since he'd slowly been ascending for about two hours. Of course, it wasn't any lighter so he couldn't tell. His hands hit the cool wood of a door and Shephard quickly opened it, light flooding in from somewhere beyond. It wasn't very bright, but it was a vast improvement on using his night vision. He squinted, flicking off his night vision as he jammed his eyes shut. After opening his eyes, he saw the before him was the foot of a concrete staircase that he was praying led to an exit. Quickly, he hurried up the steps, his boots thumping on the steps, before he reached the top.

And he was met by a sight of sheer destruction.

He was standing in what remained of a small room, a large pile of rubble now taking up most of the floorspace. It stretched beyond the wide open doorway into whatever was on the other side and thus allowing the little light being provided by the night sky to fill the ruined facility.

Shephard looked to his left, realising that the walls were low enough that he could climb over them if he used the large piles of debris as a way of getting up.

Without a second thought, Shephard ran over to one of the piles and began running up it, losing his balance momentarily as one of the chunks slid out from under his foot, before he jumped at the wall and pulled himself over, surprised to find that on the other side was snowy ground. He landed heavily, the thick layers of snow breaking his two metre fall. Slowly, he stood up and looked around.

The ground was all snow, layers upon layers of ice crystals bundled up together into a giant vista of white that seemed to give off a weak glow into the night. Behind him was a giant mountain, a blanket of shadows draped over its snowy peaks and jagged edges. He remembered that the base was elevated about twenty metres so he assumed that the base had been built on a small plateau or something in front of the base and that was why it was elevated.

Whatever, it didn't matter. What did matter was finding a way to get off this frozen dump and find the Resistance. How he was going to do that, well... he had no idea.

"_Corporal Shephard," _the Phyx suddenly spoke to him telepathically, breaking an almost half hour silence, _"if you have made it to the surface yet, be careful because the intruder is still up there."_

The last time they'd contacted him they'd told him that they were still alive. Not that he'd cared, since their motives were completely polar to his.

Behind his gasmask, Shephard winced at the unintentional pun. _Their motives were completely polar to his. _If someone in the Arctic had said that to him he'd have punched them in the face. He decided to forget about both the comment and the Phyx and instead head for the front of the...

_BOOOM!_

From somewhere inside what remained of the facility, something exploded. A large chunk of debris flew over the wall Shephard had just crossed and that provided him pretty good incentive to run. So he did.

Breathing hard, he charged alongside the damaged base, his feet crunching in the deep snow as he went. There was another explosion, causing him to grit his teeth and go faster. A third explosion, and he decided to zone out and just run.

About two minutes later, he reached the helipad. He'd been expecting there to be a helicopter or something, but instead there was a giant _thing _with what looked like a futuristic shipping container stuck to its belly. He had no idea what it was, but it looked like some sort of personnel carrier. A dropship or something.

That was useful. It looked like it was alive, a cyborg or something like that. Since Shephard was pretty sure that it was impossible to fly cyborgs he looked around for somewhere else to go. He couldn't see anywhere, other than a similar path on the other side of the destroyed facility. Without a pause, he made his way toward it.

And that was when the ground exploded.

Shephard was thrown to the ground like a ragdoll in a tornado as a gigantic bloom of flames erupted from the ground, spraying melted snow all over his clothing. The heat was almost unbearable, it was like he was inside a fireplace. The fire slowly died down, small flames floating through the air among heavily falling snow.

And then he showed himself, walking slowly through the fading flames, adjusting his expensive looking tie and staring emotionlessly at the injured, weak Marine lying on the ground ten metres away.

Shephard's eyes widened in shock. It was that man... and he was trying to kill him?

The man didn't stop, he just kept walking toward him, his glistening green eyes boring into his soul. "Such a pity, Corporal Shephard," he whispered demonically, his jaw tightly clenched as he took the last few steps toward the horrified soldier, "that you had to rise again, just so you could die mere feet from where you were felled the last time."

And with that, the man picked him up by the neck and swiftly threw him off the edge of the plateau, twenty metres above the snow-covered rocky ground that awaited him below.

The man didn't need to hear any crunches or splatters to know he was dead. All he did was turn around with a brief brush of his lapels, before walking behind the Combine dropship and dissolving into the ether as if he hadn't even been there.

—

_I'm not done with you... Corporal Shephard...

* * *

_

You know, I just realised something, writing that last bit: The Gman would make a kick ass horror villain. He wouldn't need to wear a mask like Jason or Michael Myers, he'd just be piss scary if he was frowning malevolently at people. Maybe that's why people decide to make him evil. I like to use elements of both good and bad to make him seem more... well, badass. Kind of like a scary Duke Nukem in a suit.

Keanu Reaves would make the perfect Gman. The bit in The Day the Earth Stood Still remake, when he's standing in front of the helicopter-fireball in the forest, that reminded me so much of the final battle in Episode 3 Possibilities. I swear, he was the Gman to me.

On another note, things haven't been very epic so far... but believe me, they will get better. Chapter Three in Episode 3 included people talking, the Gman driving the plot and flying to the Borealis, so... whatever, I hope you enjoyed this. Hopefully next chapter will be shooting people. Yay for guns and explosions.


	5. Four: Elucidation

**-=Chapter Four: Elucidation=-**

**White Forest, 10:05 PM**

_The bed's warm enough_, Gordon thought to himself as he sat on the old mattress, two thick sheets pulled up to his waist. He was sitting up against the bars at the head of the bedframe, a thin pillow between him and the uncomfortably cold metal it was propped up against.

It was nothing compared to what he got at Black Mesa. Ah, the joys and sorrows of being a theoretical physicist. Mostly joys, though, otherwise he'd probably have gotten a job at a cheesecake shop or something just as useless to the progression of the human race. Then again, Black Mesa had existed in a time before aliens had invaded and taken complete control of the planet.

Thinking about the Combine, Gordon couldn't help but compare them to something that he was familiar with. Such was how the human mind worked, comparison of something unfamiliar with something familiar.

_In this case, _he mused as he sat there, _the best analogy would be the Roman Empire. Spread out across so much of the world that they were eventually crushed by barbarians. _He chuckled lightly, _compared to the Combine, I guess we are barbarians._

It was ironic, really, how powerful the Combine was and yet how easily it was crushed. Well, almost crushed. Their grip was loosening, even though most countries were still under their tight authority. Something that Gordon and the Resistance hoped to rectify within a few years.

The Combine had spread themselves too thin, and now they're paying the price.

—

"We need to call a conference," the German five-star General explained. "Have all the military leaders from across this planet convene at one place to discuss what we do next."

"I agree," the Swedish Major General concurred. "Concerning our evacuation and the Romanian Resistance. Am I correct in saying that we have, so far, lost authority only in that country?"

"You are indeed," General 591282 affirmed, sitting down at a small metal table, tapping the top with a gloved finger. "Of course, the human race has become very... _violent, _in the past year or so. People rising up against our kind ever since they heard about the success of the people in Romania." He chuckled, shaking his head. "We've been keeping them under control, though. I have to say, that Gordon Freeman is impressive. Nobody else seems to be as inspirational to these humans as he is, and he was able to kill our Human Administrator!"

"I know, it's ridiculous," the Major General agreed, pulling his chair closer to the table. "The biggest, most critical part of our clockwork on this planet destroyed by a single man. Not a very comforting thought, is it?"

The German general nodded, rubbing his masked chin. "I hear he actually went inside the Citadel afterwards to stop its self-destruction, just so more citizens could be evacuated. Almost died in the process."

"You've got to hand it to him, he's one determined son of a bitch."

"Pity he isn't on our side."

"Indeed."

The German general paused. "Are you aware that he and the Romanian Resistance are leaving for Ukraine tomorrow, to help attack one of the Cities?"

"All of them?"

"Certainly not," the five-star general snorted. "Some of them have to stay behind to defend White Forest."

"Why don't we attack while they're gone?"

"Don't you know anything, soldier?" the general demanded angrily. "That place is cursed."

"How so?"

"Didn't you hear about Brigadier General Soldier 47291?"

"Of course I did," the Major General snapped. "But I didn't know he was killed at White Forest."

The general snorted again. "It wasn't just him. Almost _twelve thousand _Romanian and Serbian soldiers were sent into that base, along with about a hundred Hunter-Choppers and gunships. Don't ask me how, because we don't know, but _every single one of them was killed._"

"_Shit..._" the Major General whispered.

The general huffed, "you're telling me. Apparently some troops in Serbia saw some planes flying over the country, so there's the possibility of air support. But they only counted ten or something planes so we don't know what they were armed with. What we do know is part of the base collapsed, so maybe they bombed the place. What we want to know is _why _they would bomb it?"

The Major General shrugged. "Wish I knew. I didn't even know about all this until you told me just now."

The general shook his head. "Don't worry about it. We received word from Siberia that everything was going to be alright."

"What does that mean?"

"Damned if I know. Come, let's get something to drink."

—

_Welcome, Corporal Shephard. If you have no objections, I would like to begin._

Shephard groaned, both out of utter exhaustion and irritation at having to listen to some kind of ostensibly divine voice whispering inside his head.

_Firstly, I feel obliged to inform you that you are not dead, despite you being thrown from the top of a twenty metre high plateau in the Arctic. No, you are in fact somewhere in between the realms of life and death, a sort of limbo, if you will._

Why does this voice sound familiar?

_Secondly, the only reason you are here is because I need you._

Shephard listened in, even though he was very enthusiastic to do so. He'd had that one pulled on him more than once before, and both times had been little more than a load of bullshit and chips.

_Despite what you may think inside your sceptical mind, everything I am telling you is entirely legitimate. I am not fabricating anything, though your disbelief is warranted given that you have also been told that before. _

How did he know that? Maybe this guy was the real deal, if he knew about that conversation. Then again, the similarities between this voice and that man's were uncanny...

_What I require of you is certainly already the usual business. I want you to kill Gordon Freeman, Corporal Shephard. The last time you were entrusted with such a task, you were destined to fail because the man who instructed you to do so last time was never intending on allowing you to succeed. He was never going to allow Dr. Freeman to die, he simply lied to you to _test _Gordon Freeman. You were a mere pawn, sent in to be killed._

Made sense.

_I, on the other hand, have... _a score _to settle with that man. Since Gordon Freeman is not only critical to that man but the others in his... community, as it were, destroying him would deal substantial damage to them. That is what I desire: The destruction of Gordon Freeman as revenge against his employer._

Shephard was pretty sure he understood everything now: The same guy that had _employed _him had also done the same for Gordon Freeman. Apparently, that guy and the one speaking to him right now had some bad blood between each other and this guy wanted to get back at him by having Gordon Freeman killed by a hired gun, who this man had decided was going to be him.

_I am confident that you desire to know the particulars as to my motivation. Intricate details are not necessary, but in this case I will at least tell you that I have something in common with the men I wish to damage. Not long ago, something... _unfortunate_ came up that demanded I feel the way I do about these men. _

Something in common...?

_So... Corporal Shephard, I understand that you are no longer in possession of your Powered Combat Vest. Such an imperative addition to your outfitting must be returned to you at once. I will see to it personally. When you wake up, rest assured that it will be on your person, as if it had never been gone._

That was a relief. Shephard had wondered where the hell it had gotten to, but he shrugged the thought away. It was irrelevant, after all.

_I will be guiding you the entire way, Corporal Shephard. I see you have a radio on your combat webbing. I will be in contact with you whenever you need it. Just speak into it, and I will be there._

—

After making her way back to the base, Alyx had decided to retire for the night. She'd made her way to her room, preparing to go to bed. About five minutes after she'd gotten into bed, someone rapped on her door. Reluctantly, she gave permission for them to come in.

The door swung open, and she saw Barney's dimly lit figure standing in the doorway. She couldn't make out his face, so she didn't know what was happening. "Barney? What's going on?"

"You know that body armour you stole from the Marine in Sweden?" he asked, his tone frantic as he turned on the lights.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"It's gone."

Alyx's eyes widened, "What? How?"

"I've no idea," Barney admitted, "but I got told to get you and Gordon to come have a look."

"Alright," Alyx shrugged, still not entirely sure what was really going on.

—

"I was doing some final tests on it, to see if there was any possibility that we could perform reverse engineering on it to begin production on our own version," Dr. Kleiner stammered as the small group of rebels stood listening to his ravings in his office, "when it simply vanished!"

Magnusson huffed disbelievingly. "Doubtless you've simply misplaced it, Kleiner."

Kleiner eyed him in agitation. "I tell you, it was right here!" he gestured toward what looked like a miniature operating table. "I turned away for a moment to read over something, and when I looked back it had disappeared completely!"

"Look, Dr. Kleiner," Gordon insisted, his voice slightly weary, "are you absolutely sure that it was there?"

"I must say, Dr. Freeman, I wasn't expecting you would regard my account with such scepticism," Dr. Kleiner retorted. "I'm not a lunatic, as you well know."

Magnusson snorted. "Could have fooled me."

Kleiner ignored him. "Do any of you have any ideas as to where it went?"

The group was about to give their somewhat confused reply, when somebody interrupted them through the opening of the office door. Everybody turned to face the door, and the suited man walking inside. "Evening, everybody," the Gman greeted the collection of Resistance leaders calmly. "Have I missed anything?"

It took a moment for Dr. Kleiner to explain the situation. The Gman's response to it, however, was rather unexpected. "You say that it disappeared the instant you turned away?" he inquired slowly.

"I only look away for a moment," Dr. Kleiner clarified.

The group watched as the Gman relaxed. "Hmm." He droned thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "I believe I have a possible explanation. If you will excuse me..." he turned on his feet and left.

The group watched him go, before Dr. Kleiner sighed. "I apologise for calling you all here."

"Glad to see you agree with me," Magnusson added, making for the door.

—

"Certainly you cannot refute the possibility?" the Gman demanded, staring at the other Members unfalteringly.

"Member Eight, we cannot even confirm that he knows about our existence." The First Member insisted, trying to convince Member Eight that he was right.

"Of course he knows about our existence, First Member!" the Gman snapped, frowning deeply. "If a Fissionist is killed, all other Members know instantly that one of their numbers has passed away!"

"Even still, it has been almost twenty years since we came here. May I remind you that you were out in the field when it happened, watching the human race as the Combine drove it into the ground?"

"Irrelevant!" the Gman retorted. "Doubtless he too was on the planet, just as aware of what you were doing as I was. Think about it: When I brought him out of stasis, he was most likely watching Shephard and I. When the Phyx rose Shephard, he probably took the opportunity presented to him and made his way to Inferno Abyss. I stand convinced that Corporal Shephard is not dead, and therefore a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why his Powered Combat Vest simply disappeared becomes apparent. _He needs Corporal Shephard for something!_"

The other Members leaned back in their seats, considering his argument. It was unbelievable that something as insignificant as missing body armour had reminded them that it was possible shocking implications such as this existed.

"What do you propose?" the First Member inquired slowly, having seemingly conformed to Member Eight's argument.

The Gman leaned back in his seat, relaxing. "I need to find him. If I am correct, he knows what we have done and he wants revenge. He also knows about Dr. Freeman, and how critical he is to the defence of Earth against the Combine. My guess is that he saved Corporal Shephard, got his PCV back and has now sent him off to kill Gordon Freeman. If that is his plan, and I have no doubts that it is, then it is essential that I stop him."

The First Member nodded. "Very well. Will you be needing backup?"

The Gman smiled. "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary. After all, I know him better than anyone else in the entire world."

* * *

OK, the foundations for the plot have been laid. From here on out, people should get shot, chapters will be longer and crazy shit will happen. Watch out, because my action-thriller insanity is coming soon!


	6. Five: Instigation

**-=Chapter Five: Instigation=-**

**White Forest, 8:39 AM**

"You're leaving _again_?" Gordon asked, his mind somewhat disbelieving.

The Gman nodded in an almost wistful manner, looking at the three seated at the small rounded table he was seated by. "Believe me, it is absolutely essential that I carry out this assignment."

"So..." Alyx eyed his suspiciously, a thin and curious smile gracing her lips, "...what's it about?"

The answer she got was a tight, satisfied smile from the Gman. "I cannot tell you." He answered with a straight face, his tone as serious as possible.

"Oh, and why not?" she pressed, her smile widening.

"Suffice it to say it is both confidential information and my silence would save you from a lot of anxious concern." The Gman replied bluntly, in an attempt to deter her enthusiasm.

"Come on," Gordon insisted, smiling.

The Gman turned his head to Gordon calmly. "Dr. Freeman, I have clearly stated that I will offer no clarification into the matter."

Gordon shrugged dejectedly, leaning back in his chair. "Well..." he continued, "...when are you going to be back?"

The Gman averted his gaze, "I don't know yet." He admitted. "What I do know is that it won't be as brief as my last operation was."

"Can you tell us what that was?" Alyx asked cautiously, hoping that she wouldn't annoy him.

Thankfully, the Gman chuckled softly at the question. "I guess you are inclined to that information," he decided with a subtle shrug, just as someone walked over to their table holding polystyrene cups and sat himself down. "Morning, people," Barney greeted the others cheerfully, passing a cup of coffee to Alyx. "I'm hoping that you're all in need of some java?"

The Gman gave a polite wave of his hand, "Thank you for the offer, Mr. Calhoun, but I'm fine as is."

Barney shrugged casually, passing a cup to Gordon. "Oh, and guess what I found..." he added, handing something else to Gordon.

Gordon grinned widely, examining the faded label on the bottle. "Wow, Barney," he whistled, "I never expected you to go through with it!"

"Yeah, well," Barney scratched his neck, "some of the boys found a little collection of the stuff. Still good, by the way."

Gordon nodded, placing the light yellowy-brown glass bottle on the table. "Ursus..." he read aloud, raising an eyebrow as he read the rest. "Huh, looks like it's some kind of Romanian lager." He looked up at Barney, smiling, "I'm guessing it's not cold?"

Barney snorted, "'course not, Gordon. Remember, the Combine abolished the use of all refrigerators long ago."

Gordon chuckled, crossing his arms. "You do know I'm not going to drink it, right?"

"Huh?" Barney frowned, "why not?"

"It's like nine in the morning, man!" Gordon reminded him, smiling widely.

Barney cocked his head slightly, raising a finger. "You have a point. But you will later, right?"

Gordon rolled his eyes, "yes, I'll drink it later. We should be back by this evening, so how about I have it tonight to celebrate victory?"

Barney shrugged, "fine by me, do what you want with it." He looked over at the Gman. "So, am I right in saying you were about to tell us something?"

The Gman nodded slowly, leaning forward in his chair. "I was about to explain to Dr. Freeman and Ms. Vance the reasons for my departure yesterday."

Barney took a sip of the third cup of coffee, gesturing for the Gman to go ahead. "Do tell."

The Gman obliged, starting off. "I was called to the Fissionist Council Chambers yesterday evening because Corporal Adrian Shephard was alive."

That hit all three of them like a bombshell. "What?" they demanded, almost in shocked unison.

"As I quickly discovered, it was true," the Gman explained. "Apparently, the Combine were somehow able to send a message to the Combine-enslaved planet of Trysik, requesting that they send a group of the planet's natives known as the Phyx to Earth."

"What for?" Gordon asked hurriedly.

The Gman looked over at him calmly. "The Phyx are unique in one way: all of them have some sort of weak telekinetic abilities. Both the Combine and other Phyx have ways of augmenting those who possess stronger abilities, and they are eventually trained as elitist members in one of two disciplines."

"So, what are they?" Alyx asked inquisitively, not alone in her curiosity as both Gordon and Barney watched eagerly for the answer.

"The first is a type of psionic enhancer that increases a Phyx's telekinetic ability," the Gman continued, "letting them repulse or attract larger and more challenging objects such as vehicles and buildings. The other discipline, the one that the Phyx who came to Earth are trained in, enhances another kind of this psychic power that allows a disciple to _heal _severe injuries and lacerations, specifically lethal wounds. Those that can harness the pinnacle of this power have the ability to _raise the dead_."

"Damn..." Barney whispered, shaking his head. "And they raised this guy? I hear Gordon put a bullet in his head!"

"Irrelevant," the Gman shrugged. "Resurrection would have negated all pre-mortem injuries. If he'd had a broken bone or a cut before he died, that too would have been fixed. Basically, he was completely rejuvenated."

"So I'm guessing you went to... wherever he was raised to kill him again?" Gordon inquired smartly.

The Gman nodded. "Indeed, you are correct. He was still at Inferno Abyss, so I went in and..." he paused, a smile slowly spreading across his face, "well, I destroyed the majority of the facility."

"And you got Shephard?"

"Of course. He did better than I had expected, mind. He made it all the way to the courtyard, before I descended the stairs outside the lobby and saw him running toward me from the helipad. Quickly, I knocked him to his feet by causing the ground to explode and expel a pillar of fire, before I calmly walked through it and threw him off the edge of the plateau."

"So..." Gordon began, raising an eyebrow. "Why do you have to go back?"

"He's going _back_?" Barney demanded, looking at both Gordon and the Gman incredulously.

The Gman nodded slowly. "I cannot tell you, remember? However, what I can tell you is something occurred yesterday that has necessitated I take care of it. Oh," he stopped suddenly, as if he had remembered something, "of course. I told you that the Phyx have been enslaved by the Combine, yes? Well, it has been for about a century now, and consequently they have become extremely loathing of them. Far more subtly than the Resistance here, they have been gathering a resistance. I am very confident that the five Phyx sent to Inferno Abyss were intending on betraying the Combine."

"Really?" Alyx asked, somewhat excitedly.

"It is my assumption that they raised Shephard, intending on using him as a human ally. For what purpose, I cannot speculate. But I am convinced that they have escaped Inferno Abyss one way or another."

Gordon nodded slowly, taking it all in. "Alright. Well, I guess we'll see you later."

The Gman nodded too, standing up. "I can assert to that much." He confirmed, extending his hand and shaking with the three. "Good luck in your endeavour this afternoon."

"And vice versa," Gordon agreed, smiling warmly.

—

About four hours later, three Hunter-Choppers prepared to depart from White Forest and head north-east toward the country of Ukraine. Carried in each one were fifteen soldiers, all armed and ready to attack the Ukrainian Combine fortifications on one side of the Dnieper River, a large river that flowed through the middle of the city Kiev.

Gordon looked over at Barney, sitting beside him in a worn Combine Metrocop-vests and thick combat webbing. He could see at least four grenades, a USP Match 9mm and an AR2 pulse rife strapped around his front. Barney caught his friend's gaze and winked confidently, nodding at Gordon. "You ready for this?"

Gordon chuckled, looking out the small, circular window to his right. Dark clouds were filling the sky to the west of White Forest. Hopefully Ukraine wouldn't be suffering from weather similar to the impending downpour. "Sure as hell I am."

"_Copy that, Helix Two," _one of the other choppers confirmed over the radio, _"We're all set to go."_

"Alright, let's do this," the pilot answered, flicking some switches and turning to the soldiers in the cabin. "OK, people," he called out as the chopper rose into the air amidst the other two helicopters now flying into the horizon, "here we go."

Barney sighed, looking through the cockpit windows. "You know what, Gordon?"

"Yeah?"

"I wasn't joking about that cigar thing."

Gordon laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, if you find one, I'll stick it in my mouth just to see what it looks like."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

Barney smiled, nodding slowly. "Great," he chuckled.

**Dnieper River Base, Ukraine, 2:13 PM**

The three Hunter-Choppers soared across the light grey overcast sky, toward the sparkling water of the Dnieper River. The city Kiev was on both sides of this waterway, the western part of the city being the location of the Combine fortifications. They were built both into and on the top of the hills as both topside concrete bunker-like buildings and winding underground mazes respectively. Defences included heavy machineguns mounted on the roofs of these concrete bunkers and prominent guard towers standing high above the utilitarian bunkers.

Gordon looked down at the grassy hills below, then out at the eastern part of the city. Surprisingly, the Combine hadn't had a very palpable influence on the buildings, as most of them were still pretty clean. Unlike the Cities in Romania, it wasn't immediately obvious that anything was out of place. All the buildings were still standing and looked like they were regularly maintained. What was unusual was that Gordon couldn't see anybody, human, animal or Combine.

The whole reason they were there was to assist a Ukrainian Resistance unit planning to attack the base. It was entirely possible that they were already inside the enemy's base, but there were no bodies, carbon marks, bullet holes or even spent casings there to suggest they really were already inside.

"Ukrainian Resistance unit, this is Hunter-Chopper Helix Two," the pilot spoke into his radio, watching the ground cautiously, "we've arrived at the Combine facility, where are you, over?"

There was no reply.

"I say again, Ukrainian Resistance unit, this is Hunter Chopper Helix Two and we have arrived at the Combine facility, please state your current location, over."

Again, there was no reply. The pilot slowly changed to the friendly frequency. "They're not responding, One and Three," he explained calmly, preparing to turn the plane around. "Think we should bug out?"

There was a brief pause. "_Affirmative, Helix Two,_" Helix One confirmed as it slowed down in front of Helix Two, "_they may have been comp—_"

He never got to finish the sentence, because at that moment there was a bright flash of reflected light for a split second before Helix Three exploded violently, a ball of fire rushing out in all directions as charred and twisted metal bounced off the front of Helix Two's cockpit. "_Shit!_" Helix One's pilot screamed as his helicopter spun sharply in the air to avoid the explosion, the blast throwing it off balance somewhat, "_Helix Two, get your ass out of here!"_

The pilot didn't need to be told twice. The helicopter spun in midair, hovering stationary in the air for a few potentially fatal moments before it rocketed back the same way it came, followed closely by Helix One.

Suddenly, there was another defeaning explosion as another rocket slammed into the lower back of Helix Two, thrusting it forwards and almost flipping it over in midair. The pilot wrestled with the controls, trying desperately to raise the helicopter from its steeply angled descent before the inevitable crash. Unfortunately, he was only able to weaken the impact by a tiny amount as the helicopter ploughed into the hills, the engine catching on fire.

Gordon's world went black, the sound of the crash fading into a swirling whirlpool of silence.

**White Forest, 2:17 PM**

Magnusson looked out the Command Centre panoramic windows, sipping a cup of hot coffee while watching the heavy rain falling around White Forest. He was standing behind the computer console on which lay the missile-launch controls, listening to the loud, regulated pitter-patter of raindrops as they slid down the glass he was looking through.

The base was calm, as per usual. Nowadays, White Forest served little purpose as a safehouse from the Combine and instead now acted as the headquarters for the Romanian Resistance's international endeavours. There hadn't been a hostile gunshot echoing around the base for over a year now.

Magnusson was glad that there wasn't any gunfire anymore. Now he had peace and quiet in which to drink his coffee. It wasn't anything exceptional, but in these times you made do with what you had.

Looking up at the heavily overcast sky, he suddenly took notice of how dark it was. The clouds had completely blocked out the sunlight, covering the countryside in a blanket of dull grey. Magnusson struggled to make out the silhouetted hills somewhere in the distance, behind the large missile silo in the middle of the empty field area around the outer areas of the facility.

Magnusson huffed quietly to himself, taking another sip of his coffee. _Haven't seen weather like this for a while, _he thought to himself as he stared blankly out the rain obscured windows. _If the Combine were intelligent, it would be to attack at a time like now._

Fortunately, they weren't going to get the chance to do that, because the number of Combine soldiers in Romania numbered less than two hundred. There was absolutely nothing that could possibly pose a threat to the Romanian Resistance in the country right now.

Nothing at all.

—

The rain thundered down all around him, saturating the muddy ground and soaking his clothes. His urban camo had changed colour completely, from light grey into a shade so close to black it was hard to tell the difference when there was almost no light to prove otherwise.

Huge pellets of water dripped off his rifle, disappearing with the trillions of others that were falling so numerously that they created a thick haze that misted his vision.

Thankfully, he saw the thick haze in a different light to everyone else, one that tinted it a bright green. Instead of dark silhouettes, he saw things as clearly as day. Of course, being that it _was_ day that analogy wasn't a very good one so he decided just to describe his clarity of vision as a lot better than everyone else.

Hopefully, that would save his life.

As he snuck alongside a raised concrete area guarded by a tall wire fence, he looked around him. Behind him to his left was a large collection of concrete walled buildings, the closest of which had a large glass area facing what looked like a missile silo that was giving off the most light from somewhere inside. In front of him was a large hangar, lying alone in the wide space between this square ring of concrete buildings, with only a helipad outside its giant double doors to give it company.

Ducking his head, he quickly ran over to the similarly coloured personnel door beside the large ones that were obviously for rolling helicopters in and out of the hangar. After trying the handle and finding the door was of course locked, he opted to simply slam his shoulder into the door. The door splintered instantly, the loud crack drained out by the heavy rainfall. He quickly pushed the broken door out of its frame, leaving it to fall to the concrete with a dull clutter.

As he walked toward the only helicopter in there — a dark grey Russian Mil-Mi8 — he looked behind him and noticed he was leaving large wet footprints on the contrastingly dry concrete. He shrugged his slight concern away, reminding himself that he'd be doing much more noticeable things soon enough.

Looking up at the roof, he noticed that there was a large split crossing the entire length of the ceiling, along with more lines that suggested the roof opened up. He scanned the walls and spotted some sort of mechanism connected to the roof that appeared to open it up. _Why would somebody do that? _

He shrugged to himself as he headed over to it. It didn't really matter why the roof opened, because it was going to make things a lot easier for him.

After making his way over to the large device on the wall, up on an elevated platform complete with stairs and a rusty safety rail. He tried figuring out how to work it before he discovered it was basically opened by pulling and holding a lever down to keep it open and releasing it to close it.

That meant he couldn't let go if he wanted to keep it open.

Grunting in agitation, he looked around for something to keep the lever down while he flew out. After looking around for a while, he found a large coil of thick rope lying on the ground nearby. Picking it up, he quickly returned to the lever and proceeded to pull it down.

Slowly, the roof opened, allowing the rain to fall in freely and splatter noisily against the helicopter and the concrete floor. He began to wrap the rope tightly around it with one hand, ending with an awkwardly done double knot. He then kept pulling the rope down as he looked for somewhere to keep it down. Immediately, his eyes fell on the rusted safety rail. Without a moment of reconsideration, he pulled the other end of the rope over to the rail and began winding it around the lowest bar, before looping it back through and wrenching it one last time.

Not wanted to waste any time, he quickly headed for the helicopter, which was now completely dripping with water. _Hopefully, nobody will notice I've been here until I'm gone, _he thought grimly to himself as he climbed into the cockpit.

He didn't have much experience flying helicopters. After all, he was a Marine and that meant the most advanced thing he was required to pilot was a boat, in case his ride home had been destroyed or delayed during a naval operation and he needed to hijack one. He'd done it a few times before, as both training and outside of the military, but he was no skilled pilot. Even though he'd flown the Combine Hunter-Chopper the year before, that meant nothing. It had been good weather then, and the rain falling now was so loud he would have sworn that hailstones had become involved.

Ignoring his pessimistic thoughts, he decided to go ahead with it. After getting everything ready and finally lifting the chopper off the ground, he noticed that the safety rail seemed to be mo—

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeaaaak!_

With a hideous groan, the rail started to bend. Not only that, but the moving parts that kept the roof in place also seemed to be complaining. He decided to hurry the hell up and get out of there before the roof slammed shut.

His helicopter flew into the gap, the rain draining all other sounds out, including his deep breathing. He quickly checked that the landing gear was retracting when...

_GRRRRRROOWBAAANG!_

The hole in the roof disappeared as the double doors slammed shut, the rope snapping under the extreme tension. One of the two metal doors was hit so hard that it crumpled and fell off its guide, hitting the wet concrete with a resounding clang.

Not even bothering to look back, he hurriedly flew off, over the buildings, trees and finally the narrow valley in which the majority of the water was gathering. He couldn't tell from where he was, but he was almost certain he'd seen bodies floating down there.

Clearly, this Resistance was a force to be reckoned with.

—

He didn't remember falling asleep, but apparently he had. The last thing he remembered was the helicopter... going down.

_I must have been knocked unconscious... _Gordon thought to himself, blinking. He still had his glasses on, so that was a plus. He was looking up at a grey, overcast sky with a plume of thin smoke coming from somewhere to his right, out of his sight. Slowly, he rose up, rubbing his head. His hand was greeted by a warm liquid that was irrefutably blood. Gordon lowered his hand, looking at the red stuff all over the tips of his gloved fingers. _Great._

"You alright, Gordon?" Somebody asked from his left as they walked over to him. Gordon looked over quickly, spotting Barney among a group of rebels standing and sitting a few metres away from him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he affirmed, standing up and stretching weakly. "Agh... so we went down?"

Barney nodded solemnly, "Got it in one."

Gordon wiped his hand on the leg of his suit, before lifting his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "Did we lose anyone?"

"Pilot's neck snapped," Barney admitted, bowing his head, "and his collarbone appears to have come straight out of his shoulder and stabbed right through his cheek."

"_Shit..._" Gordon whispered tensely.

"Two other guys didn't make it," he continued, scratching his head. "And, Gordon..."

"Yeah?" Gordon asked, hoping there wasn't any worse news.

"We... we couldn't find Alyx." Barney muttered quietly.

Gordon's heart skipped about ten beats when he heard that. Alyx had been on their chopper, so how could they have lost her? "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Look, we searched for a body, but we found nothing," Barney explained quickly, "the chopper blew up about five minutes after it crashed, and we couldn't find anyone in it apart from the three guys who died, so we're guessing that she's either wandered off or... been taken by the Combine."

Gordon bowed his head, rubbing his forehead feebly while accidentally smearing more blood across his head. "The Combine might have taken her?"

Barney shrugged angrily, since he was obviously under pressure from a lot of people, "Geez, Gordon, I don't know! I haven't heard anything from anyone about her and we can't find a body, so that's the only other option I can think of!"

"Alright, sorry, man," Gordon raised his hands defensively. "It's just... well, she's gone, and..."

"Yeah, don't worry," Barney ran a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly, "sorry about that, Gordon, but the shit's hit the fan and I'm supposed to be in charge."

"OK..." Gordon nodded. "So what do we know?"

Barney rubbed his chin. "Helix One didn't get destroyed, we know that much since they came back to help us. 'Course, now we're stranded here 'cause we've only got one chopper left and about thirty people to take back."

"What about the Ukrainian Resistance?"

Barney snorted. "Oh, we've heard jack little squat from them. Don't think they even know we're here, so you can scratch them out."

Gordon nodded slowly. "A-are we gonna try and do anything to find Alyx?"

Barney sighed again. "Look, man, I have no idea. The last thing I wanna do is leave her here, but if she really has been taken by the Combine then I don't see how thirty people are going to get her back out of a base with about a thousand soldiers inside it."

Gordon shook his head, turning around and looking at the base. It was about half a kilometre away from where they were, in a valley between two large hills. The rebels had gathered in that same valley, giving them a clear view of the base.

Then his eyes lit up. "Barney?" he asked, not even turning around.

"Yeah?"

"You got any suppressed guns?"

"Uh... I think we've got some detachable silencers, yeah. Why?"

Gordon kept staring at the base, his eyes shining with determination. "I reckon one man with a silenced gun has a better chance against a thousand soldiers than thirty guys just trying to storm the place."

Barney's eyes widened. "Oh, hell no..."

"Don't try to stop me," Gordon cut across, his voice firmly resolute, "because you can't."

* * *

OK, I have to admit, that chapter was pretty damn weak sauce compared to, say, driving a jet ski through a window nearly ten metres above the ground (so much fun to write that chapter, you have no idea). But things are definitely going to get a LOT better from here on out. The foundations have been set, and this was the first layer of action on top of the concrete slab of plot. Weird analogies aside, I can assure each and everyone of you that crazy things are going to happen and you will enjoy them.

Stay tuned for more, because the ride is going to be like that of a rollercoaster, only it doesn't make some people sick and it doesn't cost money to ride on it.


	7. Six: Infiltration

**-=Chapter Six: Infiltration=-**

**Ukrainian Combine Fortification, 2:29 PM**

The two soldiers standing atop the concrete bunkers scanned the lush valley as a light rain fell gently all around them. The overcast sky somehow added to the beauty of the grassy hills, and the rain wasn't so heavy as to ruin the sight.

One of the guards huffed, obviously considering the thought. "This place is a lot nicer than the Capital, eh?"

The other guard, the one manning a heavy-calibre tripod-mounted machinegun, didn't even bother looking at his comrade as he checked the breech bolt of the weapon. "Depends what you like." He answered bluntly, standing back up. "The Capital was all concrete and metal. Utilitarian, more useful that all this grass."

The first guard wasn't convinced. "Certainly you enjoy the sight?"

It was his comrade's turn to huff. "No, why? Do you?"  
"Of course I do," the first guard protested. "Concrete and steel is so dull in contrast to all this."

The other guard shrugged. "Yeah, well, it's a pity this whole forsaken planet is full of difficult little bastards that refuse to submit."

A brief pause. "Yeah," the first guard agreed. "Shame."

The two guards kept watching the valley.

Unfortunately, that meant that they missed seeing the man in orange sneak up behind them and shoot them at point blank range. They fell almost simultaneously, their bodies making dull thumps only slightly louder than the gentle pitter-patter of rain.

The man smiled, pulling the bodies away from the roof's edge. _Thank you, Marines, _he thought to himself as he turned to leave, _for forcing me to be silent when you were trying to kill me._

**White Forest, 3:57 PM**

"What do you mean, the helicopter's gone?" Magnusson demanded, vainly shielding his head from the downpour.  
"Exactly that, Magnusson," Dr. Kleiner explained, his annoyance clear. "The Russian chopper has been stolen."

The two scientists ran awkwardly through the hangar doors, into the now-empty space beyond. Part of the roof had fallen off and it now lay in a water-splattered heap on the floor, the oddly bent metal sending a light spray of water bouncing off of it as the rain hit it.

Magnusson groaned, rather than worrying about who had done this. "Wonderful, now we're going to have to replace that."  
Kleiner cleared his throat. "Magnusson, don't you think there are more pressing matters at hand?"

"Such as?"

"Who did this, maybe?!" Dr. Kleiner blurted out.

Magnusson frowned. "Well, who do you suspect?"  
"It cannot have been the Combine, obviously," Kleiner guessed, looking over at the broken safety rail on the other side of the large area. Already a group of rebels were investigating it. "Not only are they almost completely nonexistent in the country, but they would have used their own aircraft. From the evidence, then, I hypothesise that one man entered the hangar and stole the helicopter."

Magnusson huffed. "Why is that?"

Dr. Kleiner gestured at the snapped rail. "We found rope tied to one of the lower rungs," he explained. "Clearly that suggests one man had to both open it and keep it open while he escaped."

"Not necessarily," Magnusson disagreed, "there could have been at least twenty men here, and yet the fact that none of them remain here shows that the rope would have been required."

"Ah, yes," Kleiner agreed slowly. "Because if they were all getting on the helicopter, then no one would have been left behind to keep the door open."

"Obviously," Magnusson nodded smugly. "The critical point here is not the amount of men, but rather the amount of men _going on the helicopter_."  
Kleiner pursed his lips, somewhat embarrassed. "Don't worry," Dr. Magnusson smiled haughtily, "I don't think any less of you."

Ignoring his snide comment, Dr. Kleiner pointed to the wet footprints on the ground. "My theory is backed up by the number of footprints we found. One pair, leading from the door to the roof-opening mechanism on the other side, then to a pile of junk before their shoes had dried off."

Magnusson nodded. "Right. Now, returning to my original question: Who do you suspect it was?"

"We can't possibly deduce an identity, Magnusson," Kleiner protested irritatedly. "My only guess is there's some unknown factor in this equation, perhaps somehow related to the Gman's frequent departures as of late."

"I would have to concur with you," Magnusson agreed, straightening up professionally. "However, since we cannot construct a suspect, consequently we cannot assume their motivation. More likely than not, it is of hostile intent. But the question remains, then: Who, aside from the Combine, would wish that upon us?"

"Our guesses will most probably be incorrect," Kleiner agreed. "Plus, the minute amount of information we have would also restrict our rational assumptions. I believe we should warn all Romanian operatives of this possible threat to our security."

"That would seem to be the best option we have," Magnusson concluded. "Well, go ahead, Kleiner. Better hurry up and report to Colonel Baxter."

"What about Dr. Freeman, Mr. Calhoun and the others?"  
"Oh," Magnusson waved a disinterested hand, "I'm sure they'll find out from the colonel soon enough."

Kleiner nodded slowly, not entirely convinced Magnusson was taking this very seriously, before pulling a small two-way radio from the breastpocket of his old labcoat. Without a pause, he pressed down the 'talk' button and spoke into the device. "Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Baxter, do you copy, over?"

There was nothing for a brief moment. Suddenly, there was the sound of gunfire and yelling in the background a split second before the Colonel's voice came over the radio, distorted and frantic. "_Kleiner, what the hell is going on?_"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"_Who the hell is in that bloody Russian helicopter?!_"

**Dnieper River, Ukraine, 4:01 PM**

The other rebels watched wide-eyed as the colonel yelled into the little two-way, heavy gunfire pounding the ground and the large, twisted wreck of Helix Two they were hiding in. The heavy calibre bullets were making one hell of a racket but fortunately the helicopter's hull had been bent so severely that in some places it had been bent over itself, thus making it twice as thick and therefore giving perfect defence against the 12mm slugs being fired.

Every one of them had witnessed urban combat, Combine troopers coming down on people with their automatic slugthrower firearms. Bullets went through cars like they weren't even there. If you were hiding on one side of a car and someone with a gun was on the other, you were dead. So far, though, this helicopter had proved otherwise.

Fortunately, Combine pulse rounds didn't penetrate metal, since they didn't actually have solid mass. That meant that, unlike bullets, they didn't actually directly tear through flesh. What they did was cause small but very intense hydrostatic shock to a target that was often so powerful that it tore flesh and muscle, rather than the pulse round itself.

"_T-the Russian helicopter is in Ukraine?_" Dr. Kleiner demanded shakily.

"Yeah, and I wanna know who's flying it!" Colonel Baxter snapped back. "Because they're doing a pretty good job of killing my people!"

"_Uh... well, you see, colonel... we only just found out it had been stolen..._"

"Well who stole it?"

"_Colonel, I have absolutely no idea who could have possibly stolen it!_"

The colonel rolled his eyes, groaning loudly. More bullets slammed into the chopper's ruined fuselage. "Right. Thanks for the help." He muttered sarcastically. "Anything else?"

"_Well, yes, do you know where Dr. Freeman and the others are?_"

The colonel snorted. "Calhoun's with me. Freeman's headed into the base, since we reckon that the Combine have Alyx."  
"_What?_"  
"Look, I'll explain later," Baxter insisted, "right now, though, I've got a helicopter to destroy."

There was a brief pause on the other end, coupled with the sound of muffled gunfire coming from behind the collection of hiding rebels. "_Very well. Best of luck, colonel. I apologise for not being of much assistance concerning your assailant._"  
"Forget it," Baxter muttered. "Baxter out."

The colonel slipped the radio back into his webbing, standing up. "Alright, boys, let's take th—" he stopped, listening to the noise around him. "He's stopped shooting..." he whispered, grabbing his rife from the ground and running outside. His men quickly followed, cocking their various smallarms as they exited their makeshift cover.

About thirty metres to the west of their position, a helicopter was landing. A circle of grass blades blew out in all directions as the chopper descended, before it finally settled on the soft grass. The cockpit appeared empty, and that meant that whoever had been flying it was already about to leave the helicopter.

Baxter and his men headed toward it, running with their heads ducked down between chunks of debris and bodies. Finally they stopped about fifteen metres away from the chopper, the colonel ducking down behind a reasonably sized piece of tattered metal.

He had about eleven guys with him. Somewhere to his left, he spotted another group of about six rebels also sneaking toward the chopper.

Everyone was waiting for the man to show himself.

Waiting...

Waiting...

Wai—

_Tupi-tupi-tupi-tupi-tupi-tupi!!_

From somewhere _on top _of the helicopter, the distinct mechanical chatter of an M4 rifle sounded, spraying bullets onto the smaller group of rebels off to the colonel's left. Within a few moments, all six of them had been thrown backwards, riddled with bullets.

Colonel Baxter instantly stood up, opening fire on the area around the top of the helicopter. Pulse rounds slammed into the helicopter's cockpit, sending a spiderweb of cracks across the glass wherever the rounds hit and large indents on the parts of the roof that were hit. The men with him also either stood up or stayed kneeling down, shooting their own firearms at the helicopter.

_Suppressive fire, _the colonel thought as he fired indiscriminately at the chopper, _to keep him from shooting back at us._

The colonel's pulse rifle ran out of shots, so he quickly flicked the reload switch that cycled the three little energy sources that were loaded into the external magazine. After about two seconds, the spent one had been replaced with a fresh one, the new one had been loaded and the old one had been ejected out the bottom of the rifle.

The colonel started making his way around to the right side of the helicopter, still firing at the roof. The other rebels followed, still dealing out suppressive fire. Eventually, they reached the second group, who were now lying dead on the grass.

The colonel looked up at the helicopter, wondering where the guy was, when somebody suddenly ran out from the other side around the front of the cockpit, firing an M4A1 directly at the group. Three men fell instantly, their chests torn to bloody shreds revealing their shattered sternums. The remaining soldiers ran for the helicopter, firing back at the gasmask clad soldier, who seemed to be taking their sprayed bullets like they were foam darts.

After charging into the cabin of the chopper, Barney and another guy took up positions in the cockpit. The others waited in the cabin as one guy stood in the door shooting back at their attacker.

The guy in the gasmask quickly hit the ground, rolling over and aiming his rifle directly at the guy in the door, blasting him to hell. His body fell limply out of the helicopter as it rose into the air, the underslung turret swivelling in its cradle.

"Oh _shit!_" the guy on the ground hissed, scrambling to his feet and running for cover as 12mm bullets threw large chunks of grass and dirt all around him. His legs pounding, the man slid to the ground — the grass still wet from the light shower about an hour ago — and rolled behind a large piece of thick metal debris.

Up in the helicopter, Barney looked over at his co-pilot, who turned out to be the colonel. "Now what do we do?"

The colonel shrugged. "We've got enough boys still on the ground. Leave it up to them."

"Can't we do anything?"  
"What do you want us to do?" the colonel asked. "Ten rebels versus some guy in a gasmask? It's already overkill."

"Yeah, but he just got like ten of our guys then."

The colonel shrugged dismissively. "Irrelevant. He was hiding then. Now he's out in the open. They'll get him."

Barney nodded, turning the chopper around. "So... back to White Forest?"

"You bet your ass back to White Forest," the colonel agreed. "We need reinforcements _and _a way to get Ms. Vance back."

Barney nodded. "Gordon'll be alright. Believe me, he's not one to shake a finger at when he's determined to get something done."

The colonel chuckle humourlessly, "Don't worry, Calhoun. I know."

"Guess that's why he's such a good scientist."

"Determination?"

"Yeah."  
"And brains."

"So he's gonna be fine." Barney finished.

The colonel chuckled again as their helicopter flew off. "We can only hope."

—

There were eight soldiers remaining on the ground. The colonel had ordered they search for the man in the gasmask and make sure he died, so now all of them scouring the debris strewn valley, looking for him.

The ground was still a little wet from the rain earlier, so their combat boots squelched quietly as they stepped through the grassy valley. Two of them were armed with SPAS-12 pump-action shotguns, while two others had MP7s and the remaining four had stolen Overwatch service rifles, the AR2.

Sticking close together, the group made their way through the chunks of twisted metal and shattered glass, searching the larger pieces for their target. The heavy gunfire from the earlier attack had left a tranquil peace in its wake, now only broken by the sounds of rebels as they moved across the wet ground.

Passing another sizable piece of debris, one of the submachine gun wielding soldiers looked over at it, loosely aiming his firearm in that general direction.

That was when his eyes widened and he spotted the masked soldier lunging at him, holding his automatic rifle close to his body as he pressed its muzzle against the surprised rebel and swung him around to face the others, who reacted a just a second too quickly for the hostage. The poor bastard being held took the brunt of the onslaught, his body dancing and shaking as the soldier in the gasmask returned fire, using the now dead body as a shield. Two men were killed a second later, their legs collapsing from underneath them as they fell lifelessly to the rain-sprinkled ground.

The remaining five soldiers tried to move around the soldier and flank him, but he turned too quickly for them and ended up hitting two more. After that, those left decided to charge him from all sides, unfortunately resulting in one more casualty before the gasmask clad soldier was crashtackled from two sides and thrown violently to the ground, one of the rebels pinning him to the ground while yelling at the other to shoot him.

That was before he realised he was pressing his knee down on the rebel the soldier had been holding as a shield. He snapped his head around to see the real masked assailant breaking his only remaining comrade's neck, before the soldier turned on him and kicked him in the cheek and dislocated his jaw.

The rebel hit the ground heavily, lying alone amidst the dead as the gasmasked soldier shoved the muzzle of his recently retrieved M4 right under his nose. "Where is Gordon Freeman?" he snarled, his voice slightly muffled by his mask, the glistening green of the opaque lenses covering his eyes amplifying the fury pulsating from the soldier.

The rebel tried turning his head slightly, so as to spit some blood from his mouth, but the soldier pressed the barrel of his rifle harder against the man's nose. "_Where is he?_" he repeated.

Spitting out a glob of bloody saliva, the rebel glowered at the soldier. "What the hell for?" he hissed. "He's the saviour of the bloody human race, you piece of shit!"

The soldier didn't respond, merely kicked the rebel in the ribs. "I said, where is Gordon Freeman?"

Growling angrily, the rebel kept his silence.

"I'm going to shoot you..." the soldier reminded him.

"I guess that," the rebel grunted. "But at least I won't be helping you..."

The soldier chuckled coldly. "You don't want to die, do you?"

The rebel didn't say anything, which incited another cold laugh from the soldier. "Such a shame that you will... and it's going to hurt. I should know, I've died before..."  
He spoke with such conviction, such fierce emotion...

"Killed by the 'saviour of the human race', hmm?" he whispered contemptuously.

"What do you have against him?" the rebel growled.

The soldier sniggered quietly, running a cold gloved finger across the rebel's sweating forehead. "I just told you that he once killed me... and my comrades, twenty years ago."

"Black Mesa..."

"Looks like you know your history, boy," the soldier whispered. "But you've got the facts all messed up: Freeman was no hero. He killed so many hard working, honest, loyal, patriotic young men like me... and now I'm going to find him and rip his fucking heart out." He leaned in close to the rebel's face, his gasmask whistling malevolently, "You're going to help me find him."

The rebel swallowed again. "The hell I will."

Suddenly, someone started speaking into the radio on the soldier's combat webbing. "_Corporal Shephard, I have located Dr. Freeman for you."_

The soldier leaned back up, chuckling quietly to himself at the sight of the distraught rebel lying on the ground. "Well, it looks like I've just wasted my time here," he shrugged, pulling the radio from his combat webbing. "Alright, just a moment," he replied, pulling the trigger of his rifle. Three 5.56mm bullets ripped through the rebel's nose cartilage and his skull, into his brain. Blood splattered all over his face, squirting out his ears and the gaps around his eyes. Shephard removed his rifle, wiping the muzzle on the wet grass before standing up and slinging it over his shoulder. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"_As I told you, Dr. Freeman is here in Ukraine,_" the man confirmed. "_If you would look toward the Dnieper River from the valley you are now standing in, you should be able to see a collection of concrete buildings._"

Shephard looked, nodding as he spotted them. "Yeah, I see them."

"_Dr. Freeman is within that base, searching for Ms. Alyx Vance. I recall that you once met with her, the first time you were present at Inferno Abyss._"

Shephard smiled beneath his gasmask. "Looking for the girl, eh?" he inquired casually, heading for the base. "Surely I can make some arrangements that prevent his success?"

A cold chuckle came through the speakers. "_I don't doubt it, Corporal Shephard. Do whatever you must. Remember, I'm here whenever you may require my assistance concerning navigation._"

"I'll keep that in mind," Shephard affirmed. "Shephard out."

* * *

Sorry that there wasn't much of a Gordon focus in this chapter, but I hope the end made up for it. Next chapter will be balls-to-the-walls intense. Hopefully.


	8. Seven: Circumvention

**-=Chapter Seven: Circumvention=-**

**Ukrainian Combine Fortification, 4:17 PM**

_Where is he...?_

The two soldiers pressed against each other's backs, turning quickly in the middle of the room, searching frantically for the silent man that had just shot their comrade. A trickle of quickly cooling blood was running from a single bullet wound in the back of that soldier's head, and he was now lying lifelessly on the concrete floor.

The room was dark, with only a weak, flickering fluorescent light allowing brief and fleeting moments of wondrous sight. The two soldiers were pointing their guns everywhere, trying to find whoever it w—

_Pifft. _

A single suppressed gunshot sounded, coupled with the dull thud of a subsonic bullet hitting hard bone and the crumpling of clothing as the wearer fell limply to the ground. The remaining soldier lost it, firing in all directions, screaming insanely, before he too was dead a moment after he began firing.

Gunfire would signal he was there.

_Oh, shit, Alyx!_

—

"What the hell was that?" one of the guards demanded, looking at the single thick metal door in the claustrophobic little room occupied by a small wooden table, two guards as well as himself and a human woman. They'd just heard a muffled burst of gunfire.

"Somebody's here," another guard realised suddenly, pressing a 9mm against the woman's head. She gritted her teeth, trying to think of something to do.

"Don't kill her!" a third guard ordered. "Remember, we need her alive."

The other guard seemed impatient, pressing the barrel closer to her temple. "Why do we have to wait? Can't we just pretend she's still alive and get Freeman to come after us?"

The guard shook his head. "We'll need to prove she really is alive." He turned to the first guard. "Sir, should we leave now?"

The first guard didn't reply for a moment. "Yes," he answered finally, "now that someone's here, and no doubt it's Dr. Freeman."

The other two agreed, the second guard smacking the woman sharply over the head with the butt of his pistol, knocking her out. Then he holstered the gun and hoisted her over his shoulder, placing something on the table before heading after the other two guards. "Men, we are leaving with the package." The first guard reported into his mike. "Somebody has made their way inside the building. Everyone on full alert. Security detachment, report to sector 9A-3. We'll meet up with you there."

"_Roger that, sir._" The head of security replied. "_Be there ASAP._"

—

Gordon ran through the thin yet incredibly long corridor, heading for the single metal door at the far end. The dim lighting and the dull paint seemed to blur together, causing Gordon's mind to slowly convince itself that he was trying to reach the end of a physical incarnation of infinity.

Of course, since that was merely his mind in overdrive, he eventually did reach the end. When he did, he checked the door and was surprised to find it was unlocked. Fearing what lay beyond, he swung the door wide open.

What he found was a tiny device, and a small note. Not wanting to risk anything, Gordon simply looked over at the paper rather than touching it. He was almost certain touching it would set off some kind of intricate mechanism that would instantly kill him.

As his eyes scanned the scrawled message, his eyes widened, before thinning to slits. His fists clenched. _Big mistake._

And with that, he ran from the room as if he hadn't even been there.

The note just lay there, forgotten, having served its purpose. It had contained a short and blunt message to Dr. Freeman, simply explaining that they had Alyx and that he was welcome to try and get her back.

And that if he did try and get her back, he would suffer for it.

**Dnieper River, 4:26 PM**

Six soldiers ran into the dropship, before the other four followed, having checked the helipad and the areas around it for any hostiles. The pneumatic ramp-door closed, and the refreshingly bright lights blinked on, giving the soldiers a clam feeling of peaceful security. They were safe in here.

Two of them looked over at the unconscious Alyx Vance, lying on the hard metal floor of the container, before looking up at each other.

"Where are we headed, sir?" the first guard asked, almost cautiously.

The other guard, obviously an officer, chuckled. "Rostock, Germany. There're some people there we need to discuss matters with. Apparently, there are no less than _three _very important men there."

"For example, sir?"

"Well, all three of them are generals from different occupied countries," the officer explained. "One of them is a Major General from the Swedish base Inferno Abyss, another is a five-star General leading the fight against the Siberian Resistance and the last one..." he paused dramatically, "...is a Brigadier General who I was told survived the Four-Hour Siege."

"The final attack on White Forest?" the guard inquired excitedly. "I was informed there were no survivors, sir!"

"That's what I heard," the officer agreed. "But apparently, we were wrong. He turned up at a Serbian base yesterday with serious injuries that he appeared to have fixed up himself. He was flown to Rostock yesterday. I tell you, the first thing I'm going to ask him is where the hell he's been this past year."

The other guard nodded, looking back at the woman on the floor. "You sure this'll work?"

"It has to," the officer muttered. "Otherwise we're looking at total destruction. Remember, these humans are only a threat so long as they have strong willpower and morale. Break that, and... well, you know how easily we took over the planet twenty years ago. That's because they were _scared _of us. Fear is our greatest asset, and we will use it to its full potential."

"And this will break their morale?"

The officer chuckled again. "Not directly, no. But this is the first step in an elaborate plan that the Advisors have been preparing for over a year. Don't worry, I've been assured that we just completed the hardest part of that plan. Thanks to the predictable nature of the human race, things should go smoothly from here on out."

—

Gordon pulled himself out of the airvent, scrambling onto the hard concrete roof. Somewhere below him, he could hear the faint muffed clutter of combat boots and the garbled yells of frustrated soldiers but he honestly didn't care about any of it.

_They really do have Alyx..._

The message had clearly told him that they were going to the city of Rostock in Germany, where they would continue to hold her until either they were killed or she died. It wasn't very encouraging, but Gordon couldn't see any reason for them to lie about it, especially when they probably had some type of super plan to kill him should they catch even a split second glimpse of him in the city.

That was why he couldn't allow himself to be spotted. He was pretty sure they would kill Alyx the moment they saw him, or just kill him and then kill her since he was dead. Either way, she was going to be killed so he had to get her out some other way, without them knowing.

_Dammit, why did the Gman have to leave now, of all times?_

Gordon groaned exasperatedly, walking across the roof toward the hangar and complementary helipad somewhere around the back of the base. It would be quicker to steal a helicopter, plus it would probably supply enough room to get all the rebels trapped in the valley back to White Forest.

As he walked off, somebody down on the ground cursed under his breath, having missed a golden opportunity to shoot him dead.

—

Quickly scanning the empty area on the edge of the Dnieper River, Gordon snuck over to one of the landed Hunter-Choppers that the Combine seemed eager to just leave lying around for smart little Resistance fighters like him to steal. Of course, that certainly wasn't the reason. Maybe it was in case they had to get out fast and they needed them readily available. Or maybe it was all irrelevant to Gordon because they were there and he was going to make use of them, no matter what arbitrary reasoning was behind it.

Climbing into th cockpit, Gordon hurriedly started the aircraft up and prepared to take off. That was when he happened to look around for the final time before lifting off the helipad and he spotted someone running across the rooftop towards him, holding an assault rifle and wearing urban combat camo and a dark brown gasmask.

Gordon's eyes widened. _What the fu—_

He didn't have time to continue his disbelieving thoughts, because the man that he had been told was most certainly _dead_ opened fire on the cockpit he was sitting in. Without delay, Gordon got the helicopter in the air as bullets slammed into the underside of the chopper, most of them bouncing off in unpredictable angles as the man stood on the rooftop and fired relentlessly at him. Gordon took a final glance back at him and saw the man was jumping off the roof, onto the same grassy hill he himself had been on minutes earlier. He gritted his teeth, forgetting about everything else and focused on getting back to the Resistance members in the valley.

When he flew overhead, however, he discovered something very confusing. The valley was empty, save for some bodies and the remains of the two felled helicopters. What was strange was there was no indication that anyone had left, since Helix One was still waiting patiently on the ground as it had been before he left.

Gordon assumed that whatever helicopter Shephard — if that man really was him, which Gordon still wasn't convinced was the truth — had used to get here had in turn been taken by the rebels back to White Forest. It didn't look like everyone had been killed, so Gordon decided that was what had happened. A likely possibility, at least.

However, a niggling doubt was stabbing at his neck so he grabbed one of the two console-mounted radios and set the frequency to that of White Forest. "White Forest, this is Dr. Freeman. I'm flying over the hills near the Dnieper River and I can't see any remaining Resistance members. Do you know where they might be, over?"

There was a crackle of static before the reply came. _"Copy that, Dr. Freeman. We received word from Colonel Baxter that he and a group of surviving rebels had taken the stolen helicopter and are heading back to White Forest."_

"Stolen helicopter?" Gordon inquired.

"_Yes, the Mil-Mi8 was stolen from the base at approximately two thirty this afternoon. Uh, Dr. Freeman... do you by any chance know who the perpetrator was?"_

Gordon smiled thinly. "Actually, I think I do."

—

Shephard just sat slumped in the Hunter-Chopper cockpit, fuming at how easily Dr. Freeman had evaded his grasp yet again. He couldn't exactly fly after him, since the choppers didn't have any air-to-air missiles and doubtless he'd be returning to that mountain base. If he followed Freeman there, he'd be shot down in an instant.

Shephard frowned suddenly, sitting up. He couldn't actually remember how he'd gotten to that facility. The last thing he remembered was that anonymous divine helper or whatever he was talking to him, and then... crouching behind some buildings in the rain with a desperate thought telling him to find a helicopter and fly it to Ukraine.

Maybe his helper really was some type of god-like being.

**Rostock, Germany, 6:14 PM**

The trip from the Ukrainian base to the city of Rostock had taken about two hours, and by then Ms. Vance had woken up and immediately been put under custody. After landing their helicopter in the middle of the New Market, the small group had been split and escorted to two different places. The commander of the unit had been sent to a briefing room where he was to meet with the Combine generals, and the rest were sent to another, much worse place: a holding cell, where Ms. Vance was to be kept as she awaited her apparent saviour, Dr. Freeman.

—

Taking his seat, the Ukrainian officer nodded respectfully at the Combine generals seated around the table. "Good afternoon, sirs." He greeted them politely.

"And to you, sergeant." One of the generals, whose insignia showed he was the five-star general from Siberia. "If you wouldn't mind, we would like to hear a report concerning your assignment."

The sergeant nodded again. The general, apparently, preferred to get right down to business. "Very well, sir."

Clearing his throat, he began. "We encountered no issues during capture. We found Ms. Vance unconscious in the wreckage of a stolen Hunter-Chopper helicopter and she was taken to the Dnieper River facility not long after. Approximately two hours later, we heard gunshots coming from inside the base and we immediately knocked her unconscious again and escaped, along with a squad of the security team. The trip was uneventful and, again, took an estimated two hours between departure and arrival."

The general nodded. "Is that all, sergeant?" the Siberian general asked.

"Yes sir."

"Well then, you may leave. I will have one of the men show you to the barracks."

The sergeant nodded, standing up. "Thank you, sir." He turned and left, a soldier opening the door for him and closing it as he went out.

The Swedish Major General sat back in his seat. "So... now we report this to the Advisors?"

"Certainly," the German five-star general affirmed. "They will be pleased to hear the first part of their plans have been fulfilled without concern."

"And now all we need to do is await the arrival of Dr. Freeman and the cohort of human scum that will undoubtedly follow close in his wake like flies after a rotting corpse." The Romanian Brigadier General whispered maliciously.

"Indeed," the Siberian general agreed. "Now, Brigadier General... Am I right in saying you had, as you put it, critical information to give us concerning the Four-Hour Siege against White Forest last year?"

The Brigadier General nodded. "I do. However, I will not lie about the nature of my discoveries: they are not pleasant."

"Regardless, we require a full report."

"Alright," the Brigadier General shrugged. "I have two things to report: One, there were two Gordon Freemans at the base, one of which was killed by an Advisor during the attack, and two, there was a Fissionist there."

At that moment, Brigadier General-Soldier 47291 made history. Instantly, all three of the other generals were on their feet, asking — almost yelling — if he was absolutely sure.

"Of course I'm sure," he answered, both annoyed and a little offended at their remarks. "Evidently, the Resistance was trying to make it completely clear that such was the case, since my men first spotted the two iconically orange-suited men standing up on a hill where all could see them. I too saw them, before they ran off — assumedly to fight the unit breaking down the back door. I did, however, get a very good look at the man I am utterly convinced is a Fissionist. A Gman, working for them in the field."

"We already knew there were two Gordon Freemans, but what evidence do you have to confirm a Fissionist was involved also?" The Swedish Major General demanded, partially out of a need to know, and partially because he too believed the Fissionists might be somehow involved ever since that man destroyed Inferno Abyss.

"Well, unless the human race has suddenly acquired the ability to jump a hundred metres in a single leap, grab Hunter-Choppers by their propeller blades _while they're flying _and thrown them to the ground, I don't see how this man could be anything else. Also," he added, raising a finger, "he was wearing a blue suit and a tie, I think it was either purple or a dark reddish colour."

The generals sat in silence for a few moments. "This is serious," the German general finally muttered. "This means that the Major General here was indeed correct about the presence of a Fissionist at Inferno Abyss yesterday evening. However, it also suggests that the Fissionist Faction has been helping the human race, as is to be expected."

"But... why?" the Siberian general demanded. "Never before have the Fissionists assisted a species after their planet has already been invaded by the Combine!"

"Perhaps," the Brigadier General interrupted, "like our Advisors, the Fissionists also have some sort of master plan."

"Such as?" the Swedish general inquired.

"Think about it: The human race has proved to be an unprecedented example of successful resistance against the Universal Union. Not only have they thrown our planetary administrative order into disarray within twenty years, they have also — as I was informed yesterday in Serbia — dealt catastrophic damage to the Capital via a rocket containing a warhead of dark energy. Piece this information together with the fact that the Fissionist Faction is assisting these humans..."

"...then it is possible they have finally decided to crush us." The Siberian general finished.

The generals sat in silence at this sobering revelation. "So their plan... is to crush us?"

"That is what they were formed to do," the Brigadier General nodded. "Apparently, they haven't had an opportunity to do so until now."

"But how?" the German general asked. "If they really have orchestrated this plan... then that must mean they knew about the portal storms that occurred twenty years ago, the ones that showed us where Earth is."

"You're right," the Swedish general agreed. "Is it possible they caused the Black Mesa Incident?"

"Certainly," the Brigadier General nodded again. "I believe that, without the knowledge of the human race, the Fissionist Faction has been working on the sidelines... with a plan to destroy us."

"By bringing us to Earth?"

"Take Gordon Freeman as an example," the Brigadier General reminded them. "The Fissionists were probably aware that the human race would resist us. Maybe that resistance was part of their plan."

"But... if a Gman was fighting alongside the human race... then that means they must know about them now!"

The Brigadier General leaned back in his chair. "I've been thinking about this for over a year... and I think I've finally come up with an answer: The Borealis has something to do with all this."

"What do you mean?"

"I am under the impression that there is something inside the Borealis that completely cut any possible reconnection with the Capital off."

"But... the Borealis was empty!" the Swedish general exclaimed. "I heard from the unit stationed at the crevasse, the ship was empty!"

The Brigadier General smiled under his mask. "Are you all aware of the moon Sleet Rock?"

"Yes."

"Thus, you all know about the temporal shifting device there?"

Silence. "You cannot be serious..."

"It explains everything!" the Brigadier General stood up, waving a fist in the air. "Why did I see two Gordon Freemans? How did the Resistance get a warhead with dark energy inside it? Why is the Borealis empty? Why, for some arbitrary reason, did the Fissionists hide themselves until the Borealis was destroyed? _They must have changed the past somehow!_"

"Please, explain, and sit down!" the Siberian general ordered.

Somewhat reluctantly, the general sat back down. "I've heard the news from the Advisors: the Universal Union believed that Earth was doomed, along with everyone on it. But they don't remember _why."_

"We have not received this news," the German general retorted. "Besides, they sent the Phyx here!"

"And why did they send them? Because _you _contacted them first! They had abandoned all hope for Earth, but they couldn't remember why. I believe that the Fissionists somehow used the temporal shifter on Sleet Rock to destroy the contents of the Borealis, send out some kind of message that would force the Universal Union to believe that Earth was doomed, collected a small amount of dark energy from somewhere and, somehow, brought Gordon Freeman to this timeline."

"Excuse me, Brigadier General," the German general interrupted. "But can you clarify the last part for us? They brought Gordon Freeman to this timeline?"

"You all know how time travel works: Change the past, and the space-time continuum splits into two temporal lines of events. The explanation for there being two Dr. Freemans is that the Fissionists took the original one from another timeline and placed him in this one, the one that has been changed by the Fissionists."

"Hold on," the Swedish general raised a hand. "Brigadier, could you possibly summarise all this? I seem to be getting lost somewhat..."

The Brigadier General nodded slowly. "Of course, Major General... where would you have me start?"

"Just a basic overview of this Fissionist plan that you have theorised to be possible, please." The general continued.

"Very well," the Brigadier nodded again. "My theory involves the Fissionists using Earth as a critical factor in their plan to destroy the Combine. Without the knowledge of the human race, they orchestrated not only the Black Mesa Incident but also the Uprising that took place last year. Since the Fissionists were in possession of two extremely potent Xen crystals, I believe they used one to cause the Black Mesa portal storms and the other sometime after destroying the Borealis to power the temporal shifter on Sleet Rock, thus changing time to optimally aid their plan."

"And why do you believe they chose Earth?"

"Simply because the human race had begun delving in the spatial and temporal shifting attributes of the anti-mass within the Xen crystals at the Black Mesa Research Facility," the Brigadier explained "Therefore, all they had to do was give them a sample so powerful it would cause a resonance cascade. Because the human race knew the risks involved concerning these tests, nobody would suspect the Fissionists involvement when everything went wrong. Quite ingenious of them, to select a planet already doing the tests they required."

"So what you are saying..." the Siberian general interjected, "...is that the Fissionists caused the Black Mesa Incident and the Uprising? Could you elaborate as to their involvement with the latter?"

The Brigadier leaned forward in his chair. "Gordon Freeman is the key factor here. Since we all know he was a theoretical physicist working at Black Mesa during all this and he was surprisingly successful at defending himself against the United States Armed Forces sent to the facility, my guess is that the Fissionists selected him as their human operative and placed him in some sort of timeless state of existence."

"Stasis?"

"Exactly."

"But, surely Dr. Freeman would have known about the Fissionists, then!"

"Not necessarily," the Brigadier reminded them. "Remember, I saw a Gman. A field operative. Doubtless he left his identity anonymous."

"And so... this Gman was the one that caused the Black Mesa Incident and the Uprising because he was instructed to?"

"That is my theory."

"Right," the Swedish general leaned back in his chair. "But then, there is one thing left..."

"Yes?"

"You say it is because of time travel that there were two Gordon Freemans during the Four-Hour Siege."

"What of it?"

"Then, that raises unfortunate implications concerning the Fissionist Faction." The Swedish general continued. "Because, if two Gordon Freemans were made, does that not mean two Fissionist Factions were made?"

"It shouldn't," the Brigadier replied. "Since the Members have residence in some sort of alternate dimension, splitting the timeline wouldn't affect them spatially or temporally."

"But what of their Gman?" the German general added. "You yourself claim that he has been working on the sidelines since Black Mesa, so surely a second one of him was created since he was not in this alternate dimension?"

The Brigadier paused. "You're entirely correct, General." He muttered. "If I am right, and as I can see no other possible explanation, then there must be _two _of whoever the Fissionist Gman is!"

"Perhaps he is already allied with the Resistance?"

"We can only hope he is unaware of their existence," the Brigadier suggested. "And that he is working on his own."

The general nodded. "Right," the Siberian general stood. "I believe we are done here. I will have one of my men inform the Advisors of this information. Right now, however," he pushed his chair under the table as the other three stood, "we have a certain... _visitor _to attend to."

—

Tied to a chair in a room so small it would put a toilet cubicle to shame, Alyx Vance was not in the best of moods. Fortunately, she hadn't been blindfolded, but in retrospect she wasn't sure if that was going to be for the best when her captors decided to interrogate her, or whatever they were intending on doing. Besides, she couldn't see anything anyway because the room was pitch black, completely void of any light.

The door opened ten minutes later, and a single soldier walked in, covered in a blanket of shadow. After he had entered, the door closed and Alyx was surrounded by darkness again. She was expecting to be beaten up in the dark, so she couldn't see when the soldier would strike her, but all she got was the quiet ruffle of clothing somewhere to her left.

"Ms. Vance," the soldier whispered, gently running the back of his gloved index finger down her cheek. "I thank you for gracing us with your presence."

Alyx gritted her teeth, spitting in disgust. "Get the hell of me!"

The soldier may have made some sort of physical response, but since Alyx couldn't see anything she didn't know. "I beg your pardon, Ms. Vance. I address you so politely and all I get in return is spitting and curses?" he huffed, "I guess I was wrong when I assumed that not all humans were ignorant scum. Even their leaders have now proven to be immoral dirt that God has unfortunately shown enough grace as to let them live on such a beautiful planet as this..."

"Don't toy with me," Alyx hissed, "I know what you're doing. Making yourself out to be the good guy by acting all polite like that? Maybe I'd believe you if you and your kind hadn't invaded our planet and massacred more than four billion humans who, I remind you, didn't even know you _existed_, and then you drive our way of life, our hope, our faith, into the ground, before settling yourselves down and claiming this planet yours? And you have the _gall _to call _me _immoral?!" she spat again. "Go to hell."

The soldier paused before replying. "Of course, you are correct. However, you humans are no better."  
"Do explain." Alyx whispered, her voice dripping with hatred.

"Settling ourselves down and claiming the planet ours? My dear Alyx, the human race has committed these atrocities against itself. Your kind has an unquenchable thirst for blood, waring against your neighbours so as to destroy each other with bullets, starvation and illness. A mere eighty years ago, your kind took part in a global bloodbath you have given the glorious title of 'World War Two', as if it were the title of some kind of fictitious form of media. The United States, the Union of Soviet Socialists Republic, the United Kingdom, the Republic of China, the Greater German Reich, the Empire of Japan, the French Republic, the Commonwealth of Australia, all of these countries went all over this planet with one thought in mind: Murder. During these six years, you raced to invent the most effective way of destroying each other: the atomic bomb, the origins of the assault rifle and the portable rocket launcher, submarines, aircraft carries, further development of battle tanks. All these things created just to kill each other more efficiently."

Alyx sat in silence. She'd been told about World War Two by her dad. But he hadn't told her about it the same way this Combine officer was now. "At least we have our limits," she whispered. "We had the Laws of War invented so that people wouldn't commit crimes as horrible as you do."

The soldier chuckled. "So you're saying that you _needed_ written laws so that your kind wouldn't go about killing prisoners and causing excessive suffering?"

Alyx froze. She'd just dug her own grave.

The soldier sighed. "Now you see just how immoral your kind really is. You had to invent laws saying what you can and can't do in wartime. And to think, your entire military, practitioners of the art of efficient mass murder, was destroyed in seven hours."

Alyx sat in silence.

The officer continued, unperturbed. "Tell me, when you crush a small bug in your fingers, do you feel grief and sorrow for that insignificant little creature? Of course you don't. And that it exactly what your race is in our eyes: little insects so primitive and trivial that their extinction would not even matter in the long-term, forgotten within a century and completely erased from the annals of time."

His boots hit the ground as he took a step over to her right. "Dr. Gordon Freeman will, without a doubt, attempt to get you back. He's a smart one, so he'll be expecting something. But what we have in mind is so incredible and so critical to our master plan that only a select few know about it. I myself was only informed this morning. We cannot risk anyone finding out, so nobody below the rank of Brigadier General knows about it. It's a bit of a long shot, but we're convinced it's for the best. And once the human race hears about it..." the officer chuckled coldly again, "...their morale will be crushed and they will fall back into the bottomless pit of fear once more."

He clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing in the enclosed space. "Well, I must be going now. It was lovely to talk to you, Ms. Vance. I'll make sure to send some food in for you. Don't worry, it'll be good stuff. We need you alive, after all."

And with that, the door magically opened and the officer walked out, with a brief nod of his silhouetted head before the door closed again.

A single tear dropped onto her lap. _Oh, Gordon...

* * *

_

Well, I hope that was satisfactory. Sorry there wasn't much action, and that half of this chapter was basically just the Combine generals figuring out what most people were flat out told in Episode 3 Possibilities, but doing that made me realise I made a gigantic plot hole that I now have to fix. Anyone spotted it? If you have an idea as to what it is, please give me your suggestions.

Next chapter: Maybe shooty action. What I can confirm is that Part 1 — as you have seen in the past seven chapters — is very plot heavy and more focused on the characters conversations, but Part 2 is going to be straight up blowing shit up because by then you'll know everything you need to.


	9. Eight: Reacquisition

**-=Chapter Eight: Reacquisition=-**

**White Forest, 6:39 PM**

As Gordon's stolen Hunter-Chopper slowly descended through the dark evening sky onto the wet concrete helipad outside the damaged hangar of White Forest, his mind was reeling from everything that was happening. _Alyx is kidnapped... Shephard's alive... and both these facts are somehow tied to me being brutally murdered in one way or another._

It was a depressing thought, that so many people wanted him dead. Then again, so many people wanted him alive and gazed upon him like he was some kind of Messiah. Which he wasn't. He was simply a human being who fought for the redemption of his brothers.

_Defence, Destruction and Vengeance... that's why I fight. _

And until the Combine was completely wiped from the face of this planet, he was going to keep on fighting to defend, destroy and avenge.

_But... after I'm done fighting... what do I do then?_

To be honest, Gordon had never considered what he might do after destroying the Combine. The first thing that came to mind was trying to live whatever fragments of normal life could be pieced together from the shards of the idyllic mirror that the Combine had shattered, most certainly with Alyx.

_And for that to happen, I need to get her back._

Dammit, why did she have to get captured? Why did he have to get knocked out when his helicopter went down? Why did his helicopter have to go down? Why did the Combine even have to come and take over a planet that did nothing as an incentive to do so?

Life was full of crap. But sometimes, you just had to come with the crap and scoop it all away so you could find the many diamonds hidden in it.

Like Alyx. Oh, Alyx. The finest diamond of them all, captured by the foulest of the aforementioned solid waste. Ridiculous analogies aside, Gordon didn't just want her. He _needed_ her. Her safety was absolutely paramount in his life, not only because of his feelings for her, and hers for him... but in respect of her father, and her mother.

He was going to get her back.

Because if he didn't, then every single other diamond in life was instantly transformed into crap, and his life was not worth living.

—

"Gordon," Dr. Kleiner addressed the theoretical physicist after he'd sat himself down in one of the ugly green couches in Kleiner's office, along with Barney and Magnusson, "you didn't tell us you didn't have Alyx..."

Gordon winced uncomfortably. Damn, he was right. "Ah... right, sorry about that."

Magnusson huffed. "Next time, try not to take everything for granted, Dr. Freeman. Remember, everyone has expectations of you, so when you don't clarify we usually — and quite irresponsibly, as you have now shown — take it you have been successful."

"Alright, geez, I'll tell you next time," Gordon raised his hands indignantly. "My brain wasn't thinking straight, since I'd just been shot at by a dead man."

Kleiner raised a finger, "if I may," he interjected politely. "Dr. Freeman, you claimed that you know the identity of the man who stole the Russian helicopter from this base. Could you please tell us who that might be?"

Gordon sighed. "Unless the guy who shot at me had stolen his clothes, it was Corporal Adrian Shephard, an ex-HECU Marine from Black Mesa with a grudge against me for defending myself against his mates."

"And how did he get here?"

Gordon was almost about to ask why they didn't know, but then again they didn't really have a reason to the knowledge before now. "Long story that involves the Gman and some kind of test to strengthen my abilities. The Gman said he killed him yesterday after the Phyx raised him..."

"Yes, yes, the Gman told us this morning before he left," Magnusson waved his hand impatiently. "They raised him and then he killed him, then something happened and now he's had to go back."

"Right," Gordon agreed slowly.

"So the guy isn't dead?" Barney inquired.

"I don't know how, but that appears to be the case," Gordon affirmed. "He didn't chase me in another Hunter-Chopper, though, but I guess he figured I come back here and he'd get shot down."

"So now what?"

Gordon shrugged. "How should I know? He somehow found out that we were at the Dnieper River... maybe he's got a contact that's telling him where I am?"

"Who would have access to such information?"

"Maybe there's a mole at White Forest," Gordon suggested.

Magnusson snorted. "I doubt that. The human race is universally in agreement that you, Dr. Freeman, are the hottest thing since buttered bread and that if anyone will destroy the Combine then you will be an essential part of their downfall."

"This Marine guy wants him dead," Barney reminded Magnusson.

"And how many ex-Marines do we have at White Forest, Mr. Calhoun?" Magnusson retorted angrily.

Barney retreated into defensive silence.

"It doesn't matter," Gordon decided, bringing their attention back to the matter at hand. "I bet the Gman knows who his contact is and that's why he's out there. I don't know that for sure, but it seems likely."

The group gave a few quiet words of concurrence.

"OK," Gordon leaned back in his seat. "I need to get Alyx back. I have no idea where she's been taken, but I do know that the Combine is just waiting for me to barge in and try to save her. We need the Gman's help for this."

"As you just reminded us, he is out in the field looking for this apparent 'contact' of the ex-Marine trying to kill you," Magnusson interrupted.

"I know that," Gordon answered, frowning at Magnusson. "But surely he can take a break to help us out."

"That seems entirely reasonable, Dr. Freeman," the Gman agreed, closing the office door behind him as he strode calmly into the room.

"I will seriously never get used to that..." Barney muttered quietly.

"So you can help us?" Gordon asked as the Gman sat himself down in the empty couch to Barney's right.

"I don't see why not," the Gman shrugged. "I haven't had any form of success concerning my current assignment, since my target is rather excellent at evading me. When would you like me to retrieve Ms. Vance?"

"Uh... well, at the first possible occasion would be nice," Gordon admitted.

The Gman nodded curtly. "Right. I guess I'll be seeing you all in a little while." And with that, he stood back up, brushed himself off and walked to the door, opening it and walking through, before disappearing as the door clicked shut.

"That was rather abrupt," Magnusson noted.

"Indeed," Kleiner agreed, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Well now... now that the issue concerning Ms. Vance is being seen to, what else is there for us to do?"

Since the group had no suggestions, Magnusson decided everyone could leave. After a brief wave to the senior scientists, Gordon and Barney exited the office.

"So..." Barney nodded at Gordon. "Even though the mission kinda got screwed five minutes in... you still up for that celebratory beer?"

Gordon laughed. "It still is celebratory, Barney. It celebrates the day you actually kept your promise."

Barney chuckled. "Guess it is. Alright, you go get it from wherever you left it and I'll meet you in the staff room in, what, ten minutes?"

"Sounds like a plan." Gordon nodded.

"Alrighty, see you soon, buddy." Barney gave a casual wave before heading off.

**Rostock, Germany, 6:55 PM**

The Gman strode down the wide hallway, looking at all the dozens of thick wooden doors lining the right side of the corridor. Glancing over at the opposite side, he saw that it was almost exactly a mirror image of the right. The doors were surprisingly close together, he noticed. That meant the cells would be appallingly small, perhaps the size of an average shower.

Stopping in the middle of the hallway, he looked around the bland area. Everything was there, from dim lighting to dull flaking paint on the walls and insipid grey concrete that added to the boring, utilitarian decor of the corridor.

It needed some colour desperately.

Footfalls on concrete echoed from behind the Gman, who turned his head idly to look back at the stairs that ascended to a higher level of the facility.

A guard marched down the stairs, stopping to take a brief look at both sides of the cell block before continuing on toward the stairwell on the opposite side that looped back around to the level below.

The Gman tapped the soldier on the shoulder from behind him. Unlike the idiot henchmen commonly unfortunate enough to be employed by fictitious billionaire villains, the guard spun around and took a quick step backward to shoot whoever it was. Sadly, he wasn't fast enough for the Gman, who grabbed the muzzle of his pulse rifle and swiftly thrust the buttstock into his abdominal area. The blunt metal stock went right through his body, splattering the ground with thick droplets of blood as it and three of his lower ribs jabbed out his back, effectively impaling him with his own ribcage. The Gman simply let go of the rifle as the soldier fell forward lifelessly, the ground pushing the gun even further into his body as he landed on it.

The Gman nodded approvingly at the mess. _Bright crimson, _he noted, _very nice choice, if I do say so myself._

Turning from the body, the Gman looked around the hallway again before clapping his hands together with an almighty bang that reverberated off the walls and all through the facility, and every single door in the facility opened up. Violently.

It wasn't just the cell doors that exploded outwards, flying into each other in the middle of the cell blocks before clattering to the floor in various pieces of dismembered splinters. _Every _door was thrown from its frame. Those of the staff quarters, the mess hall, even the Combine bathrooms with their unusual wall-mounted hose apparatuses was not spared the power of the Gman.

That was when the torrent of inmates rushed out of their cells, ready to beat some Combine ass.

—

"_I have to go._"

"Uh..." Shephard frowned, looking out for the flock of birds flying past his Hunter-Chopper, "alright then. What's up?"

"_Something just came up. The man I am looking for just gave away his position. Now I have the perfect opportunity to gain the upper hand against him."_

Shephard shrugged to himself. "Well, don't let me get in your way, wherever you are."

He didn't get a reply, though, so he focused on flying.

—

The first thing she saw when she woke up was the blurred and dark image of a man in dirty denim clothing and tattered combat webbing that hung loosely around his body. "Miss, you awake?"

Alyx groaned, sitting up in her chair. She realised she'd been untied, presumably by the man in front of her. "Who... who are you?"

The man grinned. "The name's Lawrence," he extended a hand that looked as if it belonged to a builder, "and we're getting the hell outta here."

Alyx took the hand, and the man helped pull her up. "Wait... where am I?"

The man chuckled to himself as he walked out the door. "You don't know where this is?" he asked her as they walked into the hallway, which was somehow full of celebrating prisoners, "Combine barracks in Germany. City of Rostock, up in the north." He looked back at her with a confident smile, before his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Holy shi— Alyx Vance?" he exclaimed in disbelief. Apparently, her cell had been too dark for him to actually see who she was.

Alyx frowned, looking around the corridor at the people standing in it. Those nearby had just stopped what they were doing when they heard her name. "Yeah?" she affirmed, slightly confused. "What's going on?"

The man looked at her as if she were completely insane. "You're _Alyx Vance_!" he repeated, as if she hadn't heard him the first time. "Shit, how'd they get you?"

"W-well," she scratched her neck, not quite sure what was happening, "I was fighting in Ukraine when the Combine captured me... I think it was this afternoon. My chopper got shot down."

"So you were with the Romanian Resistance, right?" the man pressed.

"Yeah... look, what's happening? Why's everyone out of their cells?"

The man grinned again, wider this time. "No idea. All of the cell doors just blew up," he gestured to what remained of the wooden doors lying on the concrete floor, now in piles of splinted chips, "and yeah, we all ran out."

Alyx cocked an eyebrow. "All the doors flew off their frames?"

"It's crazy, I know," the man agreed.

Alyx nodded slowly. "Yeah..." she muttered, thinking whether the theory that was swirling around her head was possible or not. "Crazy."

At that moment, somebody started talking in her head. _Ms. Vance. Get out of the building with the other inmates. I will contact Dr. Freeman and the others and request that they come and pick you up as something has come up that demands I attend to it._

The voice... it seemed to drown out everything else, like a narration over background noise. Alyx didn't know how to reply, or say she'd heard him or anything, so she just decided that the Gman really was here and that he'd let everyone out somehow.

_You are correct, Ms. Vance, _the Gman answered in her head. _I am about to request the Romanian Resistance make their way here so as to evacuate you and whatever prisoners they can. Please hurry, Ms. Vance, as I am unsure how long this building will stay standing._

Alyx had no idea what he meant by that, but it didn't sound good.

_What I mean... is that I am about to engage an old friend in physical combat._

—

_Dr. Freeman, Kleiner, Magnusson and Mr. Calhoun._

"Did you hear that?" Gordon hissed at Barney, who was sitting opposite him at a small metal table in the staff room. Barney nodded slowly, his eyes darting around as if looking for the source.

_I have freed Ms. Vance from her cell in the Combine barracks a little to the north of the New Market in Rostock, Germany. I would return with her myself, however, the man I have been attempting to track down this past day evidently discovered my location when I instantaneously opened every door in the building. We are now delving in what I would barely consider gentlemanly conversation before we rip each other's brains out. It is absolutely essential that you make your way over here in case I am unsuccessful at escaping or defeating my target before either the building collapses or the Combine kill her. If either of these things has to happen, I can promise you it will not be the latter. _

—

"Surely you cannot consider your argument rational?" the Gman asked of the man standing before him.

"Why ever not?" the man demanded, his eyes burning with rage. "You tried to kill me, without motive and without any provocation from myself."

"You know why we had to kill you."

"What crime had I committed against you?"

"Playing the fool will not assist you in any way," the Gman whispered. "You were entirely aware of your proposed actions and the consequences thereof."

"My proposition was in no way detrimental to you or the Fissionists." The man retorted.

"There is no possible way in which you can refute the immoral nature of what you were intending on doing."

"What is immorality?" the man snapped back. "Such is founded on the principles of right and wrong, of which there is no universal standard!"

"Your words suggest that you possess evidential proof on which your argument is based," the Gman noted. "Have you witnessed a social convention in which your actions would be considered a conformation to the accepted norm?"

"Yes, I have!" the man growled. "My own. My own decisions are of irrefutable stability. I am in no way suffering from any damaging mental issues that would inadvertently bias my opinions!"

"So you claim your choices are not the material of any sort of mental retardation?"

"Of course not!"

"Then you can only be classified as insane."

The man's tone seemed to lighten. "Perhaps. But only if I am viewed likewise by those who write history, which I am confident you know is always written by the victors."

The Gman just stared at him. "I assume you are convinced _you _will be that victor?"

"You said it yourself," the man shrugged. "My actions are considered immoral by the social conventions of this planet's native inhabitants. Well, I can see why my theory of single-species supremacy would be viewed as such in their eyes."

"That is not the issue, and you know as much." The Gman growled. "Your theory makes rational sense. The way in which you proposed to go about it is not."

"I proposed that we painlessly destroy every single other form of sentient life in the universe so as to free them from the unavoidable curse of life! I fail to see how this can be considered 'immoral'!"

"You don't consider universal genocide immoral?"

"Gregory..." the man sighed. "Think about it seriously. Our job is to defend the universe. If we instantaneously and painlessly destroy everyone in the universe apart from ourselves, we will have defended the universe."

"And how is that a beneficial idea in any way, shape or form?"

"The Fissionist Faction is the epitome of intelligent life! The universe will be a perfect utopia when it is inhabited by us and only us!"

The Gman just stared at him sadly. "How could I have become the corrupt creature standing before me?"

The man opposite him just chuckled coldly, brushing off the lapels of his blue suit and adjusting his purple tie. "Oh, quite easily. Surely all those years you spent watching the Combine tear this planet and the human race apart in _your_ timeline affected you?"

"Of course it did! But it didn't drive me to become some sort of genocidal perfectionist as it has to you!"

The other man sighed again. "For some reason, things didn't stay consistent when you came to this timeline and I have become _you_ gone wrong."

"I'm glad you agree with me in that case." The Gman smiled tightly.

"Well, 'you gone wrong' just sounds more... poetic."

"And now we fight."

"To see who will write history."

* * *

OK, from here on out it is going to be action. Now you know practically everything you need to know, apart from the obvious expansion of why one Gman has been convinced that killing everyone in the universe so they can no longer feel pain is an ingenious idea.

Next chapter: Gordon and the Romanian Resistance have to get Alyx out, Alyx has to escape with the other prisoners... and both Member Eights will fight.


	10. Nine: Accumulation

**-=Chapter Nine: Accumulation=-**

**Airspace over Poland, 7:25 PM**

"_He'll be there in about an hour or so, _the man explained through his radio._ You should be able to arrive before he does. Unfortunately, I cannot assist you, as I am about to partake in a rather vicious battle with the man whose lies intentionally led you to your death last year."_

Shephard gritted his teeth. From what he'd seen, that guy wasn't one to mess around with. On the other hand, the man helping him also had his fair share of ostensibly divine abilities up his sleeve, telepathic communication being one of them. Shephard guessed that this same telepathy was how he was able to contact him via the radio strapped to his combat webbing. He didn't know for sure, but he could guess that there was only one radio between the two of them and it was his.

"So it was Rostock in Germany, right?" he asked into his radio.

"_Correct," _the voice answered. "_Make sure you are there, otherwise I cannot be sure as to when you will have your next opportunity to kill him."_

"Don't worry," Shephard chuckled, looking down at the destroyed buildings of the Polish city below him, "I'm not one to be late to an appointment."

—

"What's our ETA?" Barney asked Gordon, who was listening to the pilot telling him. They were flying in Helix One, over the beautiful mountains of Slovakia. Beside their Hunter-Chopper was the Russian Mil-Mi8, its cockpit having been hastily repaired after Barney and Colonel Baxter landed it with a shattered windscreen and stacks of bullet damage.

"About an hour and a bit," Gordon answered. "The city's up north of the country, so yeah."

Barney nodded, leaning back in his seat. "Gordon?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you finish your beer?" Barney inquired casually, grinning.

Gordon rolled his eyes. "Almost. There wasn't much left when we left."

"Nice?"

"It was alright. Thank goodness it was cold today, made it a little bit cooler when I had it."

Barney smiled. "Great. Finally don't have that hanging over my head."

Gordon patted him firmly on the back. "Even if you hadn't, I would've forgiven you."  
"Really?"

"Of course," Gordon laughed. "It's not like I was expecting you to actually conjure up some lager for me in these oppressed times."

Barney shrugged. "Fair enough."

—

"This is unexpected," the Siberian general muttered as he wrapped himself in a thick fur coat that had been salvaged from an invaded town in the country he'd been stationed at the past few years.

"We're lucky that we got this much warning," the German general added as he loaded his USP Match pistol and flicked on the safety, "usually Dr. Freeman appears without warning and without mercy."

"Is everything ready?" the Romanian Brigadier General asked his Siberian superior as he hurriedly armed himself with an MP7, fixing the red-dot sight mounted on the picatinny rail.

"I have asserted to that," the Siberian general nodded crisply. "We need to leave before they arrive, so there is no possible way they can see us doing so."

"Agreed," the Swedish Lieutenant General nodded also, having just entered the small briefing room. "The chopper's waiting outside."

The others nodded in affirmation, heading out. "How many are coming with us?"

"Six of the best, plus both pilots," the Swedish general replied. "Regardless, the people of Earth are going to tremble in fear once they see the might of our Advisors and their planning."

"This is the final culmination of the past year's efforts." The Siberian general declared as they headed for the helicopter, waiting for them on the concrete roof of an evening-lit building. "The Advisors will be pleased."

"Indeed," the Brigadier general nodded, climbing into the cabin with his fellow officers. "If I may, what is our destination?"

"The Advisor Council Chambers in Switzerland," the German general answered. "Apparently, they require a formal convention involving the four of us, especially you, Brigadier. The Advisors were specifically intrigued by your theories concerning the Fissionist Gmen assisting the Resistance."

—

"This way," Lawrence gestured for the group to follow, clutching the USP 9mm in his hands as if it were a baby. Out of the seven people with her, Alyx was one of the few ones actually holding a weapon. She'd been given the honour of wielding the only submachine gun they'd managed to get their hands on, but they were pretty lacking in the ammo department so she had the gun set to semi-auto.

They were in what looked like some kind of open office area, full of computers and desks that looked ridiculously out of place in a military barracks. It seemed more like something you'd find in a CIA building from the nineties. Fortunately, it seemed empty and if that fact ever changed they had a lot of places to take cover.

"I'm guessing this is where they get their intel from?" someone whispered.

"Looks like the place _I _used to work in," another man agreed, smiling haughtily.

Alyx ignored the comments, and instead watched the two doors at the opposite end of the room. Soldiers could come streaming from either side of the room and that would make things very difficult for them.

"Alright," Lawrence nodded at the door on the left. "That way."

The group ran through the centre of the room, rows of small cubicles on either side of them as they headed for the door. As they were approaching the end of the aisle, however, the door on the right was thrown wide open as a soldier in dark-grey Overwatch body armour slammed his shoulder into the door, yelling garbled orders to his men and taking aim at the escapees.

Without pause, the prisoners dived to the floor. Those without guns made no attempt to fight back because that was an utterly stupid idea so instead they just hid themselves behind some desks a few rows back.

Alyx decided now would be a good time to use fully automatic fire, since the soldiers were staying pretty close together. After throwing herself behind a desk one row back and moving it in front of the cubicle entrance she stuck her head up, rested the gun on top of the desk and opened fire on the soldiers. Very quickly, they decided sticking that close together was a bad idea since three of them were ripped into by the high-velocity small calibre bullets. Some soldiers tried to take cover on the far right side of the cubicles while others just ran back behind the door, aiming their smallarms around the corner and firing in the inmates' general direction.

Ducking down behind the makeshift cover provided by the desk, Alyx took the chance to check her ammo. About fifteen rounds left. That wasn't very helpful, since in total that meant she had about forty five. There were probably a lot more soldiers than there were bullets, at least the amount required to kill them.

Slotting the magazine back into the pistol-grip magazine well, she recocked the gun and poked her head up momentarily. A few soldiers were now inside the room itself, shooting at the cubicles. She quickly pulled her MP7 up and returned fire. One guy went down, two bullets in his side, while his comrades realised that things were getting serious and they instead opted to take cover once again.

Alyx knew she was going to run out of ammo soon and that the soldiers probably had enough munitions stashed away somewhere in the building to supply them for a few months. In other words, things weren't looking good for her or the other prisoners.

Ducking down again, she waited as a few short bursts of gunfire sounded from both the soldiers and the inmates, before she took another look...

...and instantly saw a gigantic hole appear in the floor, along with a signifying explosion of plaster flecks and fine white dust that blasted out across half the room. When Alyx looked again, she immediately saw a man in a blue suit dragging himself over the edge of the hole onto the old — and now very white — carpet.

Alyx's eyes widened. "Gman?" she asked the man incredulously.

Suddenly, an identically dressed other pulled themself into the office area and bodyslammed the first man in a way that seemed almost comically exaggerated. The first man then threw the second man off of him before climbing frantically to his feet and charging at his opponent, sending them both crashing through a thin, painted cubicle wall just a few metres from Alyx.

Alyx took the opportunity to look around for a way out, since the sudden appearance of two men beating each other up had been an excellent distraction. She looked at the back wall of her cubicle, the one closest to the wall on the left side of the room. It wasn't very high, so she quickly ran up to it and pulled herself over it just as a burst of gunfire erupted from somewhere over on the other side of the room.

Alyx landed gracefully on her feet, just as the two suited men crashed through the cubicle wall behind her, one of the two slamming the other into the left-hand side wall with a reverberating crunch of cracked plaster. The man that hit the wall then pulled himself from it and grabbed his adversary by the shoulders, throwing him back into the middle of the room.

Since there wasn't really anything Alyx could do, she simply focused on escaping. It was nice as a distraction to her enemies, but now the fight was distracting her from concentrating whenever something else inevitably broke as a result of the brawl.

The enemy was expecting her to head straight for the left door. So she decided that going around to the other side of the room would be a better strategy, plus she'd get some more soldiers out of the way. She turned around and ran back to the other end of the room as the firefight continued down the front, before she rounded the corner and headed over to the other side of the room. After reaching the far right corner of the room and spotting four soldiers crouching down in the aisle she was now in, she allowed herself a tight smile before opening fire on them. Since it was only about twenty or so metres away she got all four of them before they even realised where the bullets were coming from. After that, she ran toward the bodies, ducking low in case anyone decided to take cover there too.

She was interrupted about halfway down, however, by two men crashing through another cubicle wall mere metres in front of her, before falling to the floor in a flurry of swift blows to each other's faces.

Alyx would've shot one of them to help the Gman, but the problem was... they were _both _the Gman! Perfectly identical in every way, shape and form, apart from one having a cut near his left eye.

For a few moments she was confused, before her brain started working as she quickly moved away from the fight. _If two Gordons were made... then is it possible that these are the two Gmans?_

One of them was the man who had come with the deceased Gordon Freeman from another timeline altogether. The other was the one who had employed the Gordon Freeman _she _had grown up hearing about and known for the past year.

But apparently, something must've happened with the latter. After all, the Gman she knew was the one from the other timeline, since he told them last year that he intervened when he changed the past. She had never met the Gman that put her Gordon in stasis... but why?

Alyx decided to leave the questions for later, when everyone was back at White Forest. Right now, she needed to make sure she stayed alive long enough to ask those questions when the time came. She quickly made her way back behind the rows of cubicles, out of the fray. Gunfire was still coming from the front of the room, so that meant the soldiers were still there.

_What am I going to do?_

—

Shephard climbed from the helicopter, walking to the edge of the red-roofed building he'd landed on. It gave a clear view out at the New Market, where the Resistance helicopters were no doubt going to land. Getting his rifle out, Shephard got on the ground and lay prostrate at the edge, checking his ammo before resting it on the edge. It wasn't the best choice, but he was only about a hundred metres from where the helicopters were probably going to land so he had a fair chance of hitting Freeman even with his M4A1.

Something on the side of his rifle glinted in a flash of light reflected from somewhere to Shephard's left. Since it was getting dark Shephard frowned and checked the gun. There was something engraved on the rifle, near the selective-fire switch.

Crudely scraped into the metal was a single word: _Irony_.

Shephard frowned. Where was that from? Then he stopped and thought about what had happened the past few hours. Where had he gotten his rifle from? He didn't have it when he was at Inferno Abyss...

Shrugging, Shephard readjusted the stock pressed against his shoulder. It didn't matter. What did matter was that Freeman came on time, before it was too dark. Otherwise he didn't know when he'd get his shot at him.

_Come on, Freeman... _Shephard thought to himself, _I wasn't late, make sure you aren't either._

—

The two helicopters landed in the middle of the New Market area, rebels jumping from the cabin to the plain concrete on the ground. The place was gigantic, but it was rather empty, only a few toppled lightposts here and there to fill the huge gaps. Then again, it had been used as a marketplace before the Combine came, so it was understandable that the place was mostly empty. They probably used it for their own purposes anyway.

Gordon descended from the cabin, checking his shotgun was loaded up with all eight shells the internal mag could hold. Barney jumped off beside him, looking up at the sky and sighing deeply. "Nice night, eh?"

Gordon nodded slowly, looking around as the rebels started making their way north. To the east was a pair of train-tracks that stretched the entire length of the marketplace and beyond in both directions, before the tracks curled off to the west as it connected with a road further up. The barracks were near this bend and crossover with Lange Street, as it was known, near the old Ristorante La Fortana.

Heading off with the rebels, Gordon and Barney quickly joined up with them as they headed over to the railway beside the market. It looked as if it hadn't be—

_Tufft!_

A gunshot echoed out around the group, the crack of a bullet a split second after. In the dim light, Gordon spotted the muzzle flash of a rife coming from somewhere to their left, up on a building on the other side of the marketplace. Ducking down, Gordon scanned the roofs for someone.

"There!" he pointed at a silhouetted head poking over the edge of a red tiled roof. "Combine sniper,"

Barney squinted. "Doesn't look like a Combine soldier... looks like he's got a bigger mask or something on, see, there's this bit sticking o—"

Another gunshot interrupted his comments, forcing them to duck instinctively. "How're we gonna get him?" Barney asked, looking at Gordon.

Gordon gritted his teeth, glancing down at his shotgun. Not exactly sniping material. In fact, there wasn't really anything he could use to take this guy down.

So, without another word, Gordon rushed back toward the helicopters. "Gordon, what're you doi—" Barney called after him, before being interrupted again by a third gunshot.

"I'm going to get whoever this is myself!" Gordon called back as he climbed into Helix One once more. The last few people were just leaving it, wondering who it was making those gunshots. Gordon ushered them off toward the other rebels, who were now heading for the barracks. As he was climbing into the cockpit, Barney called out after him. "Gordon!"

"Yeah?" Gordon poked his head back out the cabin, spotting his friend.

"Don't worry, buddy," Barney smiled reassuringly. "We'll get her home safe."

Gordon chuckled softly. "Don't I know it," he answered, saluting informally at Barney.

Barney grinned, saluting back. "See you when I see you, Gordon!"  
"Same here!" Gordon called back as Barney headed off. After that, Gordon made his way into the cockpit and strapped himself in, looking up at the roof. The sniper appeared to have realised what he was doing.

Gordon gritted his teeth, firing up the chopper. "Oh, no you don't." He grunted, his brain slowly conceding to the possibility that he was still being followed by Shephard.

—

"_Shit!_" Shephard yelled as the Hunter-Chopper opened fire on the roof, sending chunks of red tiles clattering down the sloped roof and flying past his head as he ran for his helicopter. He'd landed it on a levelled out part of the roof just behind the pointed red roof he'd been up on.

Gordon watched as he clambered into the cabin of the identical Hunter-Chopper waiting on a level rooftop, undoubtedly stolen from the same Ukrainian base Gordon had gotten his from. After a few moments of turret gunfire, he let up as the chopper slowly ascended into the sky.

Growling under his breath, Gordon swung the chopper around to face Shephard's one, descending so that he was level with it. He could clearly see that it was indeed Adrian Shephard sitting in the pilot's seat, looking over at him every so often to check where he was.

Air-to-air combat wasn't what Hunter-Choppers were built for. They didn't have any AAMs or other air-to-air weapons, since they were solely used as air support as was demonstrated by their deployable mines and high fire-rate pulse turret. That meant Gordon couldn't do anything to hurt Shephard in the chopper.

_In the chopper..._

Gordon hit a button on the dashboard, keeping the Hunter-Chopper at even altitude as he grabbed his SPAS-12, ran into the cabin, pulled open the left-side cabin doors and opened fire on the right side of Shephard's helicopter.

Needless to say, the buckshot didn't do very much to the Hunter-Chopper other than scare the piss out of its pilot. He then realised that Gordon wasn't manning the chopper and that he was standing very close to an open doorway...

Shephard swung the chopper across suddenly, turning it on a slight angle as it leaned over to the right and _slammed straight into Gordon's chopper!_

Losing his balance, Gordon was thrown to the floor of his chopper's cabin. The impact had knocked some things over, and even sent a few submachine guns plummeting to their doom. Quickly getting back on his feet, Gordon noticed that one of Shephard's cabin doors had swung open due to the impact, so he made the split second decision to run through the cabin, dive at the last moment and throw his shotgun inside as he grabbed onto the edge of the door's slide frame.

Pulling himself inside, Gordon scrambled to his feet as he moved over to retrieve his shotgun, before Shephard himself charged from the cockpit and scooped it up off the floor, pumping the action — and ejecting an already loaded shell in the process — and firing at where Gordon had been. Where he was when Shephard fired was somewhere to his left, preparing to wrestle the gun off him.

Without a second thought, Shephard swung the gun around and started to cock it again before Gordon rammed into him, sending him crashing into the seats against the back of the chopper. The shotgun bounced on the floor before stopping against the closed part of the cabin doors, since only the left part had been thrown open by the earlier impact.

Shephard, who was reasonably closer to the gun, dived for it at the same time Gordon did. Both of them landed in a desperate pile on the ground, struggling to grab the weapon.

Shephard slowly gained the upper hand, since Gordon had been both a little slower and further from it to begin with, and he wrestled with Gordon to get back on his feet. When that didn't work, he tried to pump the action but Gordon grabbed his arm and twisted it roughly. Shephard yelped in pain, looking at Gordon from behind his masked eyes before slamming the hard forehead of his gasmask at Gordon's face. The hard blow came in contact with Gordon's nose, breaking it in two different places and splattering blood all over the dark brown mask.

Recoiling in pain, Gordon tried weakly to hold Shephard off, but he just wasn't strong enough now that his nose was so damaged. Shephard was finally able to stumble to his feet, unbalanced and uncoordinated, and fire another shot at Gordon. The shot was terrible, going completely wide and even sending half the shot out the open door. Grunting in frustration, Shephard once again threw himself at Gordon and instead tried to shove him out the open door.

The two fought on the floor again, though Shephard got the jump on Gordon a lot quicker this time. Violently, he shoved Gordon toward the doorway, but the scientist was able to push one of his legs against the closed door in an attempt to hold S—

_Boom._

—

The office was destroyed entirely. The cubicle had been reduced to thin plaster detritus, while half the walls had crumbled from countless oppression from the brawling Fissionists.

Both of the original fighting sides had retreated, back into the adjacent hallways they'd come from. The office area was the Fissionists territory now, and no-one was going to get in their way for fear of being ripped to shreds.

Both of them were battered, bruised and bloody. Both of them were leaving more blood on the ground than a man with the world's worst nosebleed and the floor was now irreversibly stained with the red stuff. Computers had been smashed, desks broken in half and thrown at each other and even cubicle walls had been used as melee objects against each other.

The room looked in the condition one would find a commercial property while it was being built. There was white plaster everywhere, as in there was more of it than the carpet. Not only that, but it was splattered with thick pools of blood, a few Combine bodies and hundreds of empty bullet casings.

Alyx could hardly watch it. It was really getting out of hand, they'd both lost more blood than three people in total, they'd taken dozens of blows that would be fatal to a normal man and they were still fighting.

They were stuck there. Lawrence had gone looking for another exit, but he hadn't come back et so they still didn't know about that.

The other inmates just watched in silence, wondering who the hell these people were.

Alyx looked at the roof pleadingly. _Please, Gordon, get here soon!_

Suddenly, one of the walls began to crack. A huge split appeared in the right side of the room, along with a sickening cracking sound. "Shit!" someone yelled, running back in the direction of the cell blocks, "it's gonna collapse!"

He was right. The roof caved in a few moments later, after Alyx and the other prisoners had run after him. A thick cloud of plaster and general dust blew past them, blinding Alyx and forcing her to her knees as she wheezed. She dropped her MP7, covering her mouth and jamming her eyes shut until the smell of plaster had left her irritated nose. She gasped, blinking her eyes as she looked around at the other wide eyed prisoners. Someone helped her to her feet.

Looking back at the now cut off are—

_Boom._

—

_..._

_T-Minus One... _

_At the time, I had no idea there was a countdown in progress, somewhere inside the barracks._

_..._

_Nobody expected it to happen. We probably should have, since there were so many in the world that is was almost impossible they weren't ultimately used by the invaders against us. The intricate toys of decadent superpowers as defence against each other... so many articles of fiction having prophesied what they would eventually do to us... their warnings now ringing true..._

_Nuclear weapons had been used against us... and they hadn't been the objects of salvation as they were intended to be. They were no peacekeepers. They were strategically used by the Combine to destroy us._

_I was too close to the epicentre to think these things before my body was reduced to ash and all sense of being had been whisked away in the heat._

_The Combine found a nuclear weapon._

_And they had detonated it... because they knew that I would come... they knew I would come for her... to save her..._

_All I did was give them what I wanted._

_I cannot do anything now. I am gone, my body obliterated and blown away in the searing winds. But now..._

"Gordon?"

_...I guess that someone else will have to rise up and save the human race..._

**Ruins of Rostock, 8:03 PM**

_He's gone... of course._

The Gman bowed his head, looking around the burning landscape on which he stood. The city of Rostock had been reduced to rubble and apocalyptic fires in the wake of the nuclear blast, the evening sky now overcast with horrific red clouds.

His other self had escaped, evidently. Taken his chance to run when the bomb exploded. Whatever survivors there might have been, the fallout would have taken care of them by now. Not him, though. Radiation wasn't an issue for him.

It was such a tragedy that it was to everyone else.

_The Combine... they sacrificed themselves to destroy the Romanian Resistance. _

Only a small segment of it had been killed, of course. But the casualties included Dr. Freeman, Ms. Vance and Mr. Calhoun. That was the worst part of it.

_They planned this... _

Where had they gotten a nuclear weapon from? How long had they planned this? What was the next step?

He needed answers to these questions.

Sighing deeply, he took one last look around the burning debris that had once been the German city. Right now, though... he needed to rectify the problems the Combine had now created.

—

**-=END OF PART I=-**


	11. Ten: Complications

**PART II: Reluctant Collaboration**

—

**-=Chapter Ten: Complications=-**

**Inferno Abyss, the day previously, 9:34 PM**

The small unit of snow-camouflaged soldiers climbed over another pile of rubble, the lead man kicking some of the smaller chunks away distastefully. "Dammit, this isn't good..." he muttered through his respirator, his warm breath filtered out through his mask.

"Who do you think is responsible, sir?" one of the soldiers asked as he headed down the rubble pile, into what remained of the mess hall.

The leading officer grunted in reply. "My guess is the Phyx were responsible. I hear they arrived here a few hours ago."

The squad sized unit had been scouting the area near Inferno Abyss, when they heard a loud explosion coming from the plateau on which the base was built. After making their way up, they had found the base lying in ruins amid the heavy snowfall of a blizzard. There was also a dropship waiting patiently on a helipad to the right of the main courtyard, suggesting someone had come relatively recently.

The soldiers scanned the giant room they were standing in, looking at the devastating amount of concrete debris that had once been the roof. Most of the far wall had collapsed too, leaving a larger pile over on the other side of the vaguely defined border of the hall. Small pillar foundations poked out of the detritus here and there, but for the most part the floor consisted of rubble and nothing else.

"Think they're still here?" another soldier asked, though the question wasn't directed to any specific member.

Again, the leader voiced his opinions. "Probably not. We took a while to get here, so they had heaps of time to haul their guilty asses." He pulled his radio from his combat webbing, keying his outpost. "Clouded Sky, this is Recon Unit Bravo Three reporting. We've arrived at Inferno Abyss... it's not good. The majority of the facility has been destroyed..."

Something rustled in the wind, up on the small chunks of roof connected to the wall behind the unit. A few soldiers looked up nervously, swinging their guns around as they looked for the source. Nothing. Maybe they were just excitable.

"...alright, sir. We'll be back soon. Out." The leading officer replaced his radio, turning to his men. "OK, people, show's over he—"

In a split second, all five of the thinly clothed Phyx landed behind each member of the squad, grabbing their necks with one hand and simultaneously snapping them with their others. Releasing their lifeless corpses almost immediately after, they then proceeded to leave the ruined facility behind them.

They knew it hadn't been them who had destroyed the facility, but they didn't know who _had_.

**White Forest, 8:02 PM**

"We've lost all contact with them!" Kleiner exclaimed frantically, pressing buttons rapidly in an attempt to rectify some kind of hidden error that he was praying had occurred. If that wasn't the case, then the nightmarish possibility that they really were gone became irrefutable.

"Are you certain?" Magnusson demanded, coming over to him.

"Magnusson, I've done everything I can to fix any potential errors that may have come up," Kleiner breathed exasperatedly, "and they've just completely disappeared!"

"Dr. Kleiner is, quite regrettably, correct," the Gman agreed sombrely as he entered the White Forest command room.

The two scientists spun around almost instantly, watching the Gman with their eyes wide open. "What do you mean?" Magnusson asked quietly, seemingly unable to come to terms with the thought that they really were gone.

The Gman sighed, leaning imperturbably against a nearby console, looking out at the wide, panoramic windows of the command centre out at the vast area beyond occupied by nature and a rocket silo. "At approximately one minute past eight post-meridiem, the Combine detonated a nuclear weapon somewhere inside their barracks in the city of Rostock, Germany. The blast wiped out the majority of the city's infrastructure, possibly all of it, and doubtless there were no survivors from the Romanian Resistance due to their close proximity to the epicentre."

"Dear Lord..." Kleiner whispered, almost incredulously.

"So... everybody was killed?" Magnusson asked slowly.

"Excluding myself, then yes, everyone in the city was killed."

The absolute feeling of shock became undeniably clear through the elderly scientists' expressions. Kleiner's shoulders sagged, his whole body weak, while Magnusson bowed his head in remorse.

The Gman pushed himself off of the console he was leaning against, and walked over to put a reassuring hand on their shoulders. "Rest assured," he began softly, "that I will remediate this situation as soon as possible."

"What can you possibly do to help?" Kleiner asked sullenly.

The Gman smiled weakly. "Have you forgotten already that Corporal Adrian Shephard was raised from the dead?"

—

The Gman stared pensively into the brew swirling around his polystyrene cup, the subtle motion relaying an almost unnaturally regulated calm back at him.

_Corporal Shephard was raised from the dead..._

It all made sense. After all, the same events had happened in the timeline from which he and the originally deceased Gordon Freeman had come. But there was something nagging him, something that didn't seem right...

_Had he had his M4A1 automatic rifle with him?_

The Gman was certain he had. Then again, Alyx had taken it from his body in the timeline he was from... did the same thing happen here? There was no reason it wouldn't have...

Standing up, along with his styrene cup, he quickly left the staff room.

—

"You're saying they never brought a rifle back from the Arctic?" the Gman inquired, eyeing Dr. Kleiner curiously.

"The only thing they brought back was that powered armour that disappeared yesterday," Kleiner nodded slowly, still rather upset from earlier. "Why do you ask?"

The Gman shook his head, waving a hand casually. "Never mind," he answered as he turned to leave, taking the final sip of his instant coffee.

_So... they never took the rifle...?_

The Gman dropped the foam cup into a nearby bin, almost overflowing from other bits of rubbish and scrunched up paper already there.

_But they _did _take the PCV?_

Frowning at this strange conundrum, the Gman made his way back to the staff room. He needed answers... and unfortunately, everyone who could give him some enlightenment was dead...

_OK, consider the facts: The rifle wasn't taken, but the PCV was, since it was stolen yesterday. Does this really matter, or is it irrelevantly arbitrary knowledge I just happened to mistake as important?_

The Gman opened the door to the staff room, noticing it was a little quieter than it had been a few minutes ago. He realised the room was empty, so he quietly sat himself down at the closest tablet to think. _Even if I find the Phyx, there is no way I can resurrect Dr. Freeman. From what I understand, the body needs to be intact. A pile of radioactive ashes isn't going to be much use. _

Suddenly, he stopped. _Wait a second... I came to this timeline before that Dr. Freeman was out of stasis, and since I had encountered my doppelganger in 2014 and we had labelled him as hostile that meant he couldn't get Gordon out. _I _was the one who got him out..._

The Gman frowned. _And I also got Corporal Shephard out, told him that fabrication concerning his essential role in augmenting Dr. Freeman and had him killed, just like I originally did._

Well, that got him nowhere. Everything was in place, except for some reason Alyx took his PCV and not his M4A1. _That means she never engraved it..._

Since the Gman was sure Shephard had been in possession of his assault rifle when the nuke was detonated, that meant it was highly likely to have been destroyed in the blast._ If only I could find it and confirm my theories._

Shaking his head, the Gman got to his feet. _People have been killed... I need to make sure something like that doesn't happen again._

He needed to find the Phyx. And when he did, he had no doubts they would be glad to assist in any way they could to damage the Combine, especially something so critical as the resurrection of a certain Dr. Freeman...

The Gman patted the breast pocket of his suit-jacket, smiling as he felt the thick rimmed frames under the thick fabric of the jacket. _Worry not, Dr. Freeman... I haven't forgotten about you._

**Ruins of Rostock, Germany, 10:28 PM**

The Hunter-Chopper landed amidst a swirl of rust-red dust, as if it were descending onto the surface of Mars. Unlike the cold red planet, however, it was appallingly hot. The dust blew in the rough, apocalyptic winds, the only sound for miles around being its lonely howl into the night sky.

Five beings stepped from their helicopter, their light robe garments fluttering viciously in the harsh wind. Without making a sound, they scanned the obliterated surroundings, full of destroyed masonry and the charred remains of organic life. Looking up, they saw the imposing and faded form of the iconic mushroom cloud, the universally known sign for disaster concerning nuclear fission.

The city had been nuked, doubtlessly by the Combine. But nuclear fission adapted by the Universal Union was not so crude as this appeared to have been... perhaps they had stolen a human nuclear weapon and used it on the city?

But for what reason? Was there some sort of priority threat that demanded the use of such a desperate — and undoubtedly suicidal — measure as this?

Despite the horrific scene before them, the Phyx smiled simultaneously at their synchronised thoughts. The Combine had been afraid of whoever had forced them to use this weapon... and whoever it was had to be human.

The human Resistance really was as powerful as the whispered rumours on their planet had suggested.

And thus, without a single word, the Phyx turned on their bare heels and returned to the stolen Hunter-Chopper, leaving the cataclysmic ruins of Rostock to swirl forgotten in the burning dust behind them.

**White Forest, 11:19 PM**

After requesting the Fissionists help find the Phyx for him, the Gman had returned to White Forest while he waited. To be honest, he wasn't feeling in the mood to be doing anything, since the Combine had basically shattered the morale of the human Resistance. So he just decided to sit in the staff room and think about something he'd been wondering ever since it first came up.

_Why has time not stayed consistent?_

The only thing he altered before he met with his other self was destroying Chell and GLaDOS in 2014. A few months later, he met with himself as he watched over the human race. For some strange reason, his other self had become so severely affected by the pain and suffering he had to witness day by day that he had convinced himself that every living creature should be painlessly mercy-killed so that they wouldn't suffer anymore.

Of course, there wasn't any way he could go through with this on a universal-scale without the entire Fissionist Faction backing him. They had obviously labelled him unstable and that he should be killed immediately. Unfortunately, he got away from them.

_But what caused him to change like this? Why did he react to all of this differently to how I did?_

He didn't know. Changing the past was one of those fields in science that was clouded in uncertainty. Since the future was so unpredictable, changing the past in, no matter how subtly, was equally erratic — if not more so. Nobody knew why these events were so random, but people had theorised that the future was so unpredictable that even going back in time would cause different scenarios to occur to that of the time the traveller was from, even if they didn't change anything.

The Gman shook his head, clasping his hands together. Time travel was an enigmatic thing, shrouded in mystery. He needed to focus on what _had_ happened and not _why_ it had.

Suddenly, something buzzed inside his head. That meant the Fissionists needed him for something, probably to tell him where the Phyx where. Wasting not a moment more, the Gman stood up from his small table in the empty room and head out the door, leaving the planet and the universe itself behind in a nanosecond and travelling the trillions of lightyears through the dimensions to the Council Chambers of the Fissionist Faction.

—

"Right," the Gman began as he walked through the doorway of light that had just opened from the ether, "you called?"

"Indeed we did." The First Member nodded his head slowly. "We have located the Phyx for you, however the news is certainly not going to be viewed as positive in your eyes."

The Gman cocked his head slightly. That didn't sound good. "How do you mean, First Member?"

"Quite simply, Member Eight," the First Member continued, eyeing the Gman warily, "the Phyx are outside Rostock and a unit of Combine soldiers sent from the city of Hamburg south-west of the ruins have arrived, originally tasked with investigating the blast zone and now occupied with killing the alien insurgents."

"So they're under attack?"

"Correct."

The Gman sighed, nodding politely. "Thank you for the news, First Member."

"I warned you that you wouldn't like the news," the First Member answered matter-of-factly.

"Well, that can't be helped, can it?"

"Unfortunately not. That is all, Member Eight."

The Gman nodded again, turning for the supernal door of white behind him.

He had work to do.

* * *

**OK, things are going to run smoothly from now on. There's going to be a Gman vs Combine battle next chapter, as you probably all guessed from that last bit. Hopefully you enjoyed the chapter, even though there wasn't much interesting stuff going on.**


	12. Eleven: Acquiescence

**-=Chapter Eleven: Acquiescence=-**

**Outside the ruins of Rostock, 11:21 PM**

Twisted and burning in the similarly illustrated backdrop of what had been the city of Rostock just over three hours ago, the Hunter-Chopper lay destroyed on its side in the outskirts of the ruined Germanic city. All around it, the dying flames of a faded mushroom cloud crackled with determination to survive in the dust and chunks of debris that littered the forsaken landscape.

The chopper had been shot down as it had flown relatively closely to the ground, following what remained of Satower Street as it led from the apocalyptic centre of the city all the way out into the unaffected countryside surroundings.

A small detachment of dark-grey camouflaged Combine soldiers hurried over to the wreck, their webbing clinking softly against their bodies as they ran. After reaching the chopper, four of them took up their positions around the twisted pile of burning metal as the others proceeded to investigate. Obviously the occupants had been hostile, a fact clearly proven after they had opened fire on the recon unit sent from Hamburg to check the blast zone out. Without delay, the chopper had swiftly been blasted out of the sky and now lay as it did, a charred mess of a Hunter-Chopper that had been mutilated by both the fire it had received and the heavy impact it had suffered consequently.

The six soldiers that were checking the wreck out climbed over small piles of rubble that lay all around it. The light of the fires flickered in the mirrored lenses of their masks while silhouetting their once-human bodies in an eerie gloom. Their submachine guns glistened in the weak light too, little patches of glossy metal among the grimy marks that tainted them for the most part.

There was no smoke, since the nuke from earlier had cleanly eradicated any plants that had ever graced the dry and rocky ground on which the fires now burned. No smoke meant it was easier to see inside the Hunter-Chopper.

One of the doors in the side had been crumpled so badly it had been crudely ripped off by the impact, giving a clear view inside. The first two soldiers poked their heads in, eager to confirm their success. What they found was intriguing — the entire cabin, despite the fact that it looked like the inside of a crushed plastic cup, was empty. Nothing poked out of the shadows, nothing small lying in the light of the crackling flames and definitely nothing lying in plain sight.

The soldiers frowned behind their masks, the more curious of the two poking his head in further. The cockpit door was lying in a corner, reasonably intact in contrast to the rest of the aircraft. From what was visible, the cockpit was also empty, plus there weren't any dark stains on the shattered shards that remained of the cockpit's glass windowpanes.

The more curious soldier made a quiet grunt of annoyance and confusion, before pulling his head out and glancing at his comrade, then the four others behind him. "Nothing so far." He reported, just before his head exploded.

Chunks of crimson-stained flesh bounced off the hard masks of the closest soldiers, splattering little flecks of the stuff on the hard plastic. More than one soldier yelp in shock, and more than half of them swore in disgust as they fumbled with their MP7s and backed away.

Almost instantly after, five silhouetted aliens clad in loose red robes _exploded _from the crushed cabin of their Hunter-Chopper, receiving heavy gunfire from the retreating troops as they spun gracefully in the sky, before landing on the hard, burnt out crust that was now the ground.

The soldiers immediately called for backup from their main unit as the Phyx made to advance through the gunfire. Their main unit, however, had been hit with something much more threatening than a few telekinetic aliens.

The small group of soldiers spotted the explosion even from where they were. A towering pillar of roaring flames lit up the night sky, throwing a wave of toasted dust all over the surrounding area. Having been hit by this ethereal fire, what survived of the unit ran for their lives, throwing themselves behind whatever piles of masonry had been left by the nuclear weapon. The pillar of flames slowly died down, fading into the cool night's breeze as a single figure strode through the midst of the flames.

The soldiers immediately attempted to shoot whoever this was, but it was all in vain. They didn't want to believe it, but it was almost irrefutably true: this was the Gman the Advisors had warned them was here on Earth not twelve hours ago.

Some soldiers ran for it as they made this horrific realisation, others gritted what remained of their human teeth and gave it their all. Which, obviously, was not enough to stop him.

The man simply ignored them, walking through the rubble and debris that the soldiers were taking cover behind, absorbing the pulse rounds and lead slugs that slammed into his soft flesh. Blood poured from the wounds, giving the soldiers close enough to see it a tiny — and completely false — feeling of hope that maybe they would kill this Fissionist.

That hope was dashed the instant the man snapped his fingers after walking past the relentless attackers. Their bodies were simply blasted into a million pieces, chunks of flesh and offal splattering the hard ground. There was very little blood, though, as every single cut was cleaner than the thinnest laser cutter could even hope to achieve.

The Gman headed through the dark, flame lit night, toward the sound of gunfire and the muzzle flashes of submachine guns that briefly lit up more piles of terracotta bricks behind which the Combine soldiers were hiding. The Gman smiled as he watched the small cluster of soldiers firing at an unseen enemy behind another pile of detritus comprised of bricks and some other solid chunks of stuff that probably wouldn't stop a heavier bullet.

The Gman wondered why the Combine had selected the MP7, of all things. Certainly, it was small and extremely wieldy as a submachine gun, but what one wasn't? The rifle cartridge was pathetically small, not to mention unusual, and what were they expecting to use them for? Urban warfare? They were practically useless for anything above close quarters combat since they were submachine guns, and they were constantly trying to gun down rebels in the streets with them? He shook his head at the thought as he walked toward the oblivious soldiers. MP7s. Really, even when there are about twenty million Kalashnikov rifles lying around the planet.

Smiling tightly, he strolled casually over to the soldiers hiding place and calmly ripped the head off the closest guy as he was reloading. The sickening crack instantly attracted the attention of the others who evidently hadn't noticed him in the dark.

_Let's see how your tiny slugs fare against me. _

The Gman threw the severed head away, heavily kicking the decapitated body of the soldier in the shoulder, sending him flying into the two men closest to him that were now trying to shoot back at him. The body slammed into them, not strong enough to kill them, but strong enough to break some ribs and completely wind them. The other soldiers decided it would be smarter to move their asses. The Gman didn't give them a chance, though, because before half of them could even get to their feet he had charged into them, the top of his thick shoulder bone impaling the stomach of one soldier, his corpse stuck to the Gman's shoulder. With a disgusting squelch, the Gman ripped the corpse off his now-bloodied sleeve and snapped it in half, swinging the two halves like crude melee weapons by both the arms and the legs. Like gigantic clubs, the torso and waist-and-legs combo crushed two scrambling soldiers before they could even get to their feet properly.

Suddenly, the Gman spotted a group of dark creatures running toward the remaining soldiers from his left and allowed himself a brief smile before the Phyx collided with the few soldiers still in one piece in a very unsophisticated but extremely effective way. Of course, the Gman couldn't see very much in the darkness so he could only guess at how well they were actually going about killing the soldiers. Pretty well, it turned out, since they were done in about six seconds. After completing that, the Phyx turned cautiously to the Gman, eyeing him warily as if unsure whether he would try to make friends of bite their faces off.

Seeing as there was only a little light for them to actually see anything clearly, the Gman turned around and set the ground on fire. A huge wall of flames erupted about two metres behind him, illuminating his back but only slightly improving the lighting on his front. He extended a welcoming hand to the group of tall robed aliens. "Good evening," he greeted warmly as the closest Phyx took his hand somewhat reluctantly, "perhaps you know of my kind: I am a Member of the Fissionist Faction, entrusted defenders of the universe and the forefront of Combine opposition. Doubtless the resistance you belong to on your native planet has heard of us, no?"

Since the Phyx were facing the flames, their fronts were very well lit and that meant the Gman could tell that most feelings of uncertainty were whisked away in the cold night's breeze when he introduced himself. He could, of course, be lying about who he was but they had probably seen how he had ripped the Combine to shreds and that had probably been enough incentive to trust him. "You are a Gman?" All five of the Phyx asked him curiously.

"Correct, my good friends." The Gman nodded, smiling warmly. "You are all members of an elitist psionic-enhancing Phyxian group specialising in resurrection of the dead, are you not?"

The Phyx didn't seem cautious as to how he knew this, since he was a Fissionist. They all nodded simultaneously in affirmation. "Excellent. Well, in that case, I have a proposal for you."

"We would be honoured to assist a member of an anti-Combine faction possessing a reputation such as yours." They replied kindly.

"My offer is this: I will lead you to the Romanian Resistance, which I decided to operate alongside around this time last year, if you will use your... _talents _to resurrect a certain Anticitizen One. Perhaps you've heard of him on your planet?"

The Phyx's dull eyes widened in surprise at this news. "We were under the impression that there were _two _Anticitizen Ones. Or were we mistaken?"

"No, you're right," the Gman nodded slowly, "except both of them are dead, and one of them has had his body turned to dust a few hours ago by the same device whose influence you see around you now."

The Phyx looked around at the now brightly lit dust covered countryside, covered in rubble and burnt to a crisp. They looked back at the Gman. "Anticitizen One is critical to the human Resistance," they stated, obviously having heard Dr. Freeman's reputation on their planet, "and it would be a great pleasure to _resurrect_ a man of such importance."

The Gman noticed all five pairs of eyes glisten in anticipation as they spoke the word 'resurrect'. Apparently, so many years of intense training in resurrecting the dead had created some kind of intertwined bond between death and the disciples of raising the dead, possibly verging on devoted fetishism. He didn't want to go there, so he didn't. Instead, he clasped his hands together with a broad smile. "Wonderful."

And in an amount of time shorter than any sort of chronometer could register, they were standing beside a dirt path leading through a thick forest atop a cool Romanian mountain. The Gman smiled, nodding at the grave they were closest to. "This is where the first Dr. Freeman to pass away lies. If you need anything, I would be glad to assist."

—

If someone had ever experienced the world in which they now resided, they would know the true definition of utopia. A world in which, instead of a physical governing body, the ruler is one's own discretion. No worries and no kind of expectation whatsoever, just the free will of those who belong to it.

It was the perfect example of idyllic life, where you enjoyed the royalties received through your work while you were alive. Paradise.

Alone with the one person you loved.

Gordon gazed at the astounding countryside, the bright azure of the cloudless sky, the luscious green of the grassy plains, the clear path that he and Alyx were now walking down, hand in hand.

They walked in silence, Alyx resting her head gently upon Gordon's shoulder, her eyes closed, enjoying the blissful company she had with him.

The sun shone brightly in the sky above them, replicating a perfect noon. Somewhere far off, birds tweeted with the joy they felt because of how fortunate they were to live in a place like this.

_No more pain... _Gordon thought as he walked, _no more struggles, no more suffering._

There was a silent whisper, whistling past Gordon's ears. He ignored it, since it was merely the calm flutter of the warm breeze now blowing through his hair. He only started to get curious when it intensified, the breeze strengthening and getting louder. Alyx opened an eye in surprise at the sound. "What was that?" she asked softly, looking up at Gordon.

Gordon shrugged gently, smiling at her. "Just the wind," he replied.

Then the wind got stronger, rustling her clothes and blowing her hair. She straightened up, taking her head of Gordon's shoulders and looking around cautiously. "What's happening?" she whispered as the wind became stronger still.

Gordon had no idea what was happening. The wind was getting really powerful now and he squinted as it roared past his ears.

_What's going on? _

Suddenly, the grass started blowing all toward one point in front of the two, angling toward a single black dot on the horizon. This microscopic point became bigger, the wind became louder and the wind blew harder.

"Gordon!"

Like some kind of black hole, the widening circle of void continued expanding, sucking everything in around it. Like old wallpaper, the sky simply faded and flaked away, disappearing into the swirling, impenetrable depths of the hole. It grew and grew and grew until it was almost encompassing the pair entirely in a blanket of darkness, the light fading away and their surroundings being slowly devoured by the hole.

Jamming his eyes shut, Gordon held onto Alyx tightly, as she did the same. _Don't leave me!_

With a sudden jerk, her hand was wrenched from Gordon's grasp and he felt himself flying, flying at phenomenal speeds, his ears popping and his ears tearing up, his whole body shaking and vibrating in the violent gale.

And then suddenly, there was silence, so contrasting to the roar of the wind it seemed almost deafening. Gordon could feel something, something unfamiliar while feeling so... normal.

Something _physical..._

That was when sis eyes exploded open, as he woke up from the dream he'd been living since October the year before.

Darkness. A thick forest of trees, and a group of silhouetted people standing all around him. He could barely make out the smile of one of them. The one that seemed all too familiar...

"Welcome back, Dr. Freeman."


	13. Twelve: Persuasion

**-=Chapter Twelve: Persuasion=-**

**White Forest, 11:30 PM**

The Phyx helped him out of the grave, helping him stand as unused muscles ached in protest at this sudden movement after over a year of rest. Gordon looked around at the tall, pale creatures incredulously, then at the Gman, silently begging an explanation.

The Gman could instantly tell what Gordon wanted, so he shrugged calmly. "Dr. Freeman, I assume that this is all very _confusing _for you, since you have no logical reason to be walking this planet again, however..." the Gman eyed him sadly, smiling weakly, "...some unfortunate scenarios have arisen that necessitated your return."

—

Gordon sat in the old, lumpy cushioned swivel chair behind the main console in the command centre, looking out the dark panoramic windows that overlooked the field in which lay the missile silo that destroyed the Combine homeworld.

His eyes slowly averted downwards, toward the launch console in front of him, the red button sitting under the clear plastic cover preventing an accidental launch.

_I launched the fatal blow..._

The light glinted off the synthetic casing, causing Gordon to subconsciously look up at the fluorescent lights on the roof. He squinted, remembering that looking directly at lights wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do. Looking away quickly, he suddenly realised his glasses were somewhere else. He patted the bridge of his nose expectantly, confirming what he already knew.

_Where were they?_

The door opened, causing him to turn around in the chair and spot the blurred image of the suited Gman walking into the room with a white cup in his hands, undoubtedly full of insipid black coffee. At least it gave the same java he required as an adult human being.

As he approached Gordon, the Gman extended his occupied hand, gesturing for Gordon to take the cup. Gordon obliged, taking it in both his gloved hands, feeling the warmth radiating through the thick black material. He looked up at the Gman, smiling in gratitude. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Dr. Freeman." The Gman smiled back, turning to grab another chair somewhere behind him. As he turned around with one, he also slipped something from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Gordon couldn't see it clearly, but he knew what it was.

His glasses.

"Here," the Gman passed the spectacles to the weary scientist, who immediately put them back on, "I gather you need these."

Gordon smiled again, taking a sip of his coffee, the steam floating up onto his thin goatee as the boiling liquid slid down his throat in a way that was strangely refreshing. Gordon sighed, satisfied to a degree, as he lowered the cup. "OK," he placed the cup on the console beside him, rubbing his forehead. "What's going on?"

The Gman sighed deeply, looking to his right at the dark sky outside the command centre, before looking back at Gordon. "You died, Dr. Freeman, on the fifteenth of October 2021. The date today is the thirteenth of November, 2022. You have been dead for three hundred and ninety three days."

Gordon shrugged, "Great. If that's all you wanted me for, then I'd like to die again, thanks."

The Gman smiled weakly. It was completely reasonable for Dr. Freeman to want to return to the idyllic afterlife he had been in for over a year, especially since Ms. Vance had been with him that whole time. "Dr. Freeman, surely you would have come to assume you are desperately needed?"

"Why?" Gordon asked, somewhat irritated, "did the world somehow trip over itself again while I was on holiday?"

"Well, not until a few hours ago, at eight PM," the Gman admitted. "Then the Combine decided to detonate a nuclear weapon they had somehow obtained during their time on this planet."

That hit home pretty hard. Gordon's eyes widened in surprise at this comment, "they detonated a _nuclear bomb?_"

"Not specifically," the Gman corrected. "We have no idea if it was some kind of warhead from an intercontinental ballistic missile, or just your average suitcase explosive device."

"I'm guessing that the guys from this timeline, including myself, were caught in the blast?"

"Correct."

Gordon ran a gloved hand through his hair, still slightly warm from the cup he'd just been holding. The whole reason he'd even changed the past was so that he could live with Alyx and Barney again, but now... now everything had fallen apart. "So you resurrected me... because you need me to _fight?_"

"That was my intention, Dr. Freeman." The Gman agreed bluntly.

Gordon snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Uh, OK..." he grabbed his coffee, taking a quick sip as he looked down at his feet, "... not to be rude, but could you kindly piss off?"

The Gman seemed unperturbed by this reaction. "You seem unpleased, Dr. Freeman."

Gordon rubbed his eyes, unsure whether the Gman was being serious. "You think? I fight almost non-stop for about a month, before finally getting killed by having my head raped by some alien bastard and, thankfully, ending up in a blissful afterlife where I am alone with the woman I love, and then a year later I get wrenched back to the real world on a cold night and get told, 'sorry, but the shit's hit the fan and we need your help.'"

"Apart from some minor details and lack of obscene terminology, your recollection is correct."

Gordon rolled his eyes, groaning in exasperation. "Look, Gman... I'm not fighting anymore. I'm done. I fought, I did what was right, I died, I went to paradise and that's it. There is no second chapter in the life of Gordon Freeman where he gets raised from the dead to fight the Combine once again like some kind of eternal hero."

The Gman frowned slightly. "So you're telling me that you'd rather die than save the human race?"

"Exactly."

"Unbound by your guilty conscience reminding you that you abandoned the planet you worked so hard to save before you died to the powerful discretion of an irrefutably malign empire of alien invaders?"

Gordon paused for a moment. "Can't you just resurrect the guys from this timeline? Why the hell did you pick _me?_"

"Simply because their bodies were burnt to radioactive ashes and corpses need to be intact for the Phyx to resurrect someone."

"So the Phyx are those guys that helped me out of the ground?"

"Yes."

Gordon exhaled loudly. "Shit, I dunno, Gman. I mean, why does all this have to fall on my shoulders again? Why can't my destiny leave me alone instead of calling me back to fight some more?"

"Your destiny undoubtedly knows what it is doing; perhaps it influenced me to have you brought back to life."

Gordon took another sip of his coffee, jamming his eyes shut for a few moments. "Alright... ugh, why _me_?"

"You can ask yourself that as many times as it pleases you, Dr. Freeman, but the answers will not come through any means save for divine intervention."

"Isn't that what _you_ specialise in?"

The Gman chuckled at the thought. "The Fissionist Faction is not composed of the divine, Gordon, merely directed by those who possess such attributes."

"So you're basically God's mercenaries?"

The Gman smiled at that too. "If wording it like that suits you, then by all means it is the truth."

Gordon leaned forward in his seat. "OK, OK... can't you resurrect the other Barney and Alyx too?"

"Gordon, their bodies have been decomposing in the carpark of Aperture Laboratories in Cleveland, in the timeline from which we came, for over a year. The Romanian Resistance has also been entirely crushed by the Combine attack that you averted here in October last year, since you and the others were absent."

Gordon leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. "So everything depends on me?"

"That is correct, Dr. Freeman."

"Why can't you take care of this?" Gordon asked suddenly, looking up. "God, or whoever gave you this job, obviously wants you to defend the universe, so why don't you and the other Fissionists take care of everything?"

"Because, Dr. Freeman," the Gman replied immediately, as if he had been anticipating such a question, "I am not the poster-boy for both the human resistance as a physical entity and their willpower. The news of your death was shattering when it became widespread through the global ranks last year, think of how people will react to the news that not only you, but Alyx and Barney are also dead."

Gordon nodded slowly. "Geez, Gman, do you have any idea how hard this is?"

"I can only guess."

Gordon snorted again. "I'm sure of that. I'm undecided as to what I'm going to do, man, my mind is fighting between killing myself and taking the easy path out but knowing that I abandoned my species to a race of evil aliens, or staying here to fight and make sure that the Combine is crushed so that I can die clear of all expectations hanging over my shoulders."

"I'm not going to make it any easier," the Gman added, "by telling you that nobody actually knows you're alive apart from the Phyx and myself. Everyone else is convinced that you are still dead, but they know I was intending on raising you. If you decide to die again, then I hold nothing against you: it is your life, and you deserve rest. I'll simply say that I couldn't locate the Phyx and life will continue however it will. Nobody will ever know what choice you made."

Gordon groaned again, looking up at the roof. "But then I'll feel even worse..." he looked over at the Gman. "I bet you planned all this, so that I'd feel guilty if I didn't stay and fight."

The Gman raised his hands defensively. "I was preparing for no such thing, Dr. Freeman, apart from conscious discretion on your part."

"So you _were_ expecting me to stay and fight because you knew I'd have guilt hanging over my head if I didn't."

The Gman sighed. "Perhaps I was. It is irrelevant, Dr. Freeman, as I am not forcing you to do anything. It is your choice, though I do expect you to stay and fight because that is what the man I saved all those years ago would do, and you have proved countless time that you _are_ that man."

Gordon leaned back in his uncomfortable chair, rubbing his hair vigorously while sitting in silence, the Gman waiting for his answer. "Oh, shit, more fighting..."

"I never said it would be easy."

"And Alyx and Barney are dead..."

"You have to choose, Gordon. What is more important to you: Peaceful death or troubled but rewarding life?"

Gordon moaned, leaning forward again. "Alright... alright, I'm staying. But only because the Combine is still kicking our asses."

"A wise decision."

"Look, Gman, apart from that, there's nothing left for me on this planet. Soon as the Combine bite the dust, then I'm gone. Maybe put a bullet in my own head."

The Gman nodded slowly. "If you would prefer it, I could kill you painlessly."

Gordon smiled. "You'd do that?"

"Dr. Freeman, you are already putting yourself through enough pain as it is. I do not wish you to die feeling more, since you do not deserve any of it."

Gordon smiled faintly, sipping his coffee again. "Thanks, Gman."

"Gordon, I want you to remember two things: One, the entire human race will be looking at you, watching you. If you kill yourself because of how hard everything is before the Combine are destroyed, they will undoubtedly feel inferior and weak and you will have accomplished nothing in the long run. Two, use your pain. See how efficient you were when killing Shephard last year? Remember, pain is your best friend when it comes to brutal augmentation. Nothing strengthens a person more than pain, and since it is inevitable you should at least use it to your advantage."

Gordon nodded, taking the last, long sip of his coffee, before lowering the mug with a content sigh. "Alright, Gman, bring me up to speed. What's been happening while I was asleep?"

—

"_I'm quite certain that you would be feeling rather... _confused_ right about now, but... well, such oddities such as those that have occurred are unavoidable in life, are they not?"_

"_What do you want?"_

"_Merely to help, of course. Perhaps you can recall when I placed you here?"_

"_As clearly as day."_

_"And thus you can remember the more recent time that I last got you out?"_

"_I still don't understand _why _you had to do that?"_

"_Oh, quite simply, my friend. Time does not work as my ex co-workers believe, and therefore removing you for a brief period of time was... well, not required, but certainly an added bonus on my part. And yours, obviously."_

"_So... what did you want again?"_

"_Ah... well, remember Black Mesa? I want you to go after Dr. Gordon Freeman again. Don't worry, I'll be in constant contact... Corporal Shephard."

* * *

_

**OK, now things might be a bit confusing thanks to that last bit, but I stress that you pay attention to the fact that the Gman changed the past. Remember that, because the subject of time itself is going to come up a lot more from now on. In other news, does anyone think I should come up with a different name for the other Gman, the one who belongs to this timeline but has convinced himself that mercy genocide is the perfect option? If you have a suggestion, by all means tell me so that it isn't as confusing when the two Member Eights are together - and fighting.**_  
_


	14. Thirteen: Recrudescence

**-=Chapter Thirteen: Recrudescence=-**

**Palace of Nations, Geneva, Switzerland, 12:09 AM**

The Palace of Nations had been the location of the second biggest United Nations major office site ever since 1946. At least, it had been until 2003. That year, the headquarters for the now nonexistent League of Nations went through major changes, specifically in the main area that would have been used to hold the two WSIS conferences had the Combine not invaded Earth two years before the first one.

The entire interior of this large hall was redesigned, plated in the utilitarian gunmetal grey metal the Combine used primarily on their constructions. Apart from that, the ground was excavated and turned into a five hundred metre deep tunnel to be used if ever there was to be a global conference between all the Advisors stationed on the planet. This cylindrical pit of a conference hall was identical to that of the one in the bowels of the Romanian Citadel, where Advisors would enter communicative Pods from which they could hold such conferences.

Right now, it was the residence of about fifty Advisors, most of them from different parts of Europe. They had given the order for the four Combine generals that had been in Rostock to report to them in Geneva after they had prepared for the detonation of the stolen nuclear warhead from Siberia.

These four generals were now seated in similar pods to that of the Advisors, however they were substantially smaller and there were thirty of them arranged in a ring around the perimeter of the cylindrical conference room, just above a floor of metal mesh that separated them from the Advisors — and the very long fall — below.

At the moment, the Romanian Brigadier, the soldier who had previously been the warden of Nova Prospekt, was explaining his theory about the two Gmen.

"So you see," the Brigadier continued, "the evidence is coherent and unambiguous: there are two Fissionists on this planet and undoubtedly they are helping the human Resistance, specifically that of those in Romania."

The Advisors below began telepathically discussing this among themselves. _Two Fissionists? There is no clearer explanation as to the inexplicable might of Anticitizen One! Surely this theory is truth, for the evidence we have been presented is solid and consistent and the probable nature is incontrovertible!_

The four generals could hear the Advisors conversing among themselves from inside the pods, since the Advisors had cybernetic implants connecting them to these pods for conferences such as this.

_I have to admit, _another voice interrupted suddenly, _that this is a logical assumption that would inevitably result in decided conclusion by those of sound mind. _

The four generals sat up stiffly at this voice. It was familiar, but not in a way that belied their surprise, rather amplified it. How was it possible they were hearing it?

_However, when one adds time travel into the equation all rational speculation is simply thrown out the window and abandoned for unpredictability. _

...It had been so long since they had heard it...

_So, while your theories concerning the existence of two Fissionists is entirely probable, _the voice continued, getting louder as a black circle in the middle of the metal mesh floor began glowing in a light sapphire aura, _that does not mean the two of them are in any sort of mutual agreement._

The glowing circle in the floor became brighter, a low hum vibrating through the chambers as if some kind of ethereal being was descending for the heavens. Finally, the circle faded in an instant, only to be replaced by an amputee in a blood-stained light brown suit. "Until we have direct evidence that proves this theory of allegiance between these two Fissionists," Dr. Wallace Breen concluded, "your theories remain mere possible conjecture."

—

Since it was about ten minutes past midnight most people had gone to sleep, so there were less than fifteen people up all through the complex and that meant Gordon didn't get seen by anyone, save for a few tired rebels whose drooping eyes snapped open the instant they spotted his iconic orange suit walking past them.

He'd only been alive for about half an hour and that meant that he was ridiculously tired and needing something to eat, but his fatigue was more imposing than his hunger so he dragged his protestant legs to his room, or at least where his room had been in the timeline he had come from. Lo and behold it was empty, since the owner from this timeline was now radioactive ash, as the Gman had told him. Without further consideration, Gordon climbed into the bed, pulled his thick gloves and glasses off, wrapped the thin blankets around him and hoped he would die in his sleep.

_Alyx..._

Where was she? Was she still there, alone and afraid, wondering where he had gone? Was she panicking, fearing for his life after their separation earlier on? There was no way she could possibly know — or even guess — that he had been resurrected and that meant she probably assumed some kind of malignant force had ripped him from the shared paradise they'd been in for the past year.

Could the Gman contact her? He seemed to vaguely remember him saying something to him last year about that being the last time he could talk to him, perhaps because he was in some sort of limbo that served as a waiting room for the powers that be to talk to the dead once more before they passed on.

He groaned, rolling over, the sheets pulling tightly around him. The Gman had kindly brought him up to date with everything, how Romania had been cleansed of the Combine mildew that had been stinking it up for the past two decades, how the Romanian Resistance was now aiding other fighters in other countries and how the Combine was in a world of shit thanks to that.

Things had been going fine without him.

Of course, all this had been ruined by some nuke a few hours ago and now _he _had to keep the Combine under the human boot of revolution until they'd been ground into a fine, alien dust. He wasn't sure how he was going to go about doing this, but what he did know was that he wanted to get every single person responsible for both destroying the peace and companionship he had changed the past to create _and _necessitating that he leave Alyx alone in paradise, confused and, undoubtedly, scared for him.

Gordon closed his eyes, rubbing them vigorously and blinking them quickly. _Alyx..._

He repeated her name in his mind, over and over... until the serenity of sleep took him by the hand and led him calmly to the drowsy land of peace.

In his dreams, Gordon's mind fantasised about walking down the unblemished path of gravel purity with Alyx, the same place he had been before the horrific whirlpool of impenetrable darkness had sucked him back to the cold winter night of Romanian November. In the bizarre and seamless transition that dreams are notorious for making, where one could be sailing on a boat in the Atlantic one moment and eating roast duck breast in a French restaurant the next and think nothing strange of it, he was then shooting some sort of hyperbolic incarnation of a Combine general amalgamated with the devil, its opaque lenses a fiery red and a deafeningly garbled cackle reverberating through a gloomy cavern serving as its hellish throne room. It was a fierce battle, strenuous and exhausting, that finally ended in a searing blast of culminative heat and hideous roars of defeat.

And then...

_Tell me, Dr. Freeman, if you can: you have destroyed so much..._

The cave began to crack, its jagged, rocky edges splitting cleanly, mineral detritus falling from the roof.

_...what is it that you have created?_

The beast exploded violently, blinding Gordon with a flash of demonic orange light.

_Can you name even one thing?_

And then, he was falling, falling into a bottomless pit of eternal blindness combined with the infinite reaches of time and space... and the smug voice humphed triumphantly, taking the physical form of Dr. Wallace Breen, smiling haughtily before his bespectacled eyes.

_I thought not._

Suddenly, Gordon gritted his teeth. Back when he first heard these words, he hadn't even been bothered coming up with an answer... all he had focused on was getting through the platoons of armed soldiers chasing him through the inside workings of the Citadel.

But now... now he had an answer.

"I've created a hope that you effortlessly shattered..."

At that moment, Dr. Breen's arms exploded, flying off of his torso in a flurry of blood and shredded muscle. Without even a sound of shock, his former Administrator at Black Mesa looked at the gushing stumps that had been his upper limbs.

"I've restored the morale you crushed..."

His legs went next, erupting into a swirling torrent of crimson, pale white flesh and light brown fabric.

"And now... I've got something to ask you, Dr. Breen..."

The look on the face of the man before him, now just a torso and head, watched him in utter horror, fear of what he would do next.

"... are you ready for my return?"

His torso went at that moment, squelching sickeningly as his ribs bent out at all angles before disappearing into the void, as if his body had been grabbed by some sort of colossus that had crushed his torso between its monstrous fingers.

"Because guess what?"

Dr. Breen's wide eyes were all the incentive Gordon needed to continue.

"I'm _back_."

And with that, Breen's head simply split in half, splinters of cranium and grey matter flecking out of his sticky, bloody skull. His eyes flattened, some sort of clear liquid squirting out toward Gordon like thin strings.

Gordon smiled.

And then he woke up.

**Palace of Nations, 3:38 AM**

The conference had long since concluded, and now Wallace Breen sat in the office the Advisors had so kindly presented him inside the Palace of Nations. It shared many similarities to the residence he had previously occupied, the major difference being that this could not be categorised as a luxurious penthouse office, overlooking a vast authoritarian metropolis directed by himself.

He had been safe there... at least, he had been until Dr. Freeman had come, destroyed the Citadel and caused his left arm to be ripped from his body. In seven days he had completely destroyed the pacifistic society he had constructed through strategic collaboration with the invaders.

Last year, City 17 had been arrogated by ignorant and radical fools whose moral ideology shunned the large-scale changes that had taken place and incessantly demanded the status quo they had been comfortable with and accepting of be restored. These people, arrogantly defying the irrefutable change that had occurred, were blind. They fought for the restoration of a flag that had become irreversibly crushed. The governing powers that had capitulated to the power of the Universal Union were gone, blown away like chaff in the wind, and despite this undeniable fact people still fought against the everpresent banner of the Combine, resolutely fighting the greater good.

Dr. Breen had to admit the Combine were not the most passive species in the universe. They were hereditarily authoritarian, and thus they dealt with insurrection harshly and brutally. That did not make them evil. The human race had inherited its own subliminal instincts from ancestors that would disgust many of the other civilisations that the Combine had shown him during his accepted rule. Because the Combine enforced their own views on justice with the savagery that they did, people attributed this excessive forcefulness with malignant delight.

The Combine did not consider harming those who harmed their political hierarchy evil. People saw how they relished the pain they inflicted on people and immediately labelled them through the social conventions of the human race.

Judging alien societies through the same means as human ones is critically flawed, not to mention grossly biased.

The Combine did not enjoy the pain they caused. They enjoyed enforcing their laws.

The human race had been so keen to judge the Combine through their own methods, through their accepted social doctrine of causing pain to be of negative reaction, and that anyone who enjoyed such was a terrible and sadistic person. Since they refused to collaborate with the Combine as he had, they could never know the truth.

The common maxim 'don't judge a book by its cover' would apply perfectly to the relationship between the human race and the Combine. Certainly, the Combine were obsessive. They demanded perfection of the universe, and they viewed themselves as the solution. By controlling the universe and coming down hard on any form of criminal behaviour, they ensured the safety of the people they controlled. The universe would never again war between each other, there would be union under one flag, one banner and one name.

Their motives, while seemingly contradictory when viewed from human points of view, were pacifism through brutal justice.

But the human race had seem this brutal justice being enforced and, through their own spite at the Combine, convinced themselves they were the alien equivalent to the fascist state of Nazi Germany during the 20th Century.

The 20th Century had been a time of war, of constant quarrelling between the political powers of Earth. Destruction became more and more efficient. Nuclear weapons were invented, and impending nuclear war had been on everyone's minds.

If such governing bodies had been allowed to continue on as they had during this century, then by the end of the 21st Century the human race would not have existed.

The Combine had come and wiped out the toys of the government known as the military, the pawns of inevitable apocalypse. Now, there was no possibly way through which the human race could destroy themselves.

People were so _blind_! How was it they could not see that they were _safe_! The Combine did not indiscriminately kill any human being that walked past them, despite what the misinformed population may have subconsciously decided inside themselves, but only those who _broke the law _that they had put in place to prevent any more destruction.

He had to admit, their methods were odd. Pacifism through brutal justice. It was strange to think that they strived to attain total peace through violent quelling of insurrection. But it worked. Many an alien nation had succumbed to the Combine, and those nations had not seen violence for almost as long as the Combine had been there.

Dr. Breen shook his head sadly. The human race was resolutely — and inadvertently — killing itself. Resistance against the Combine is futile, for resistance is met with merciless force. Compliance with the Combine, as he had found, was the only way to go if you wanted to survive. He had tried, so many times, to convince the human race that the Combine really was trying to help them. But no, ignorance had always proven superior concerning things that people do not understand. Misinterpreted accusations had caused even him to be labelled as an enemy, a person of hostile intent, all because of his relationship with the Combine, the invaders who are the enemies because they are different to us and operate in different ways.

_I have laid the foundations for humanity's survival... _Dr. Breen thought to himself, recalling his desperate message to Dr. Freeman _...and not as we have narrowly defined it, but as something greater than we could possibly imagine, something we can now only begin to glimpse._

Collaboration with the Combine was the only way to go.

There was either complicity... or death.

* * *

**OK... I've been putting it off too long. Action will be coming, and there will be a lot of it... it's just it hasn't arrived yet. But now, now things are picking up. Now Gordon's back and now he wants revenge. And so is an old friend, someone who is extremely interesting to play with, as you just read. Dr. Wallace Breen.**


	15. Fourteen: Cogitation

**-=Chapter Fourteen: Cogitation=-**

**Palace of Nations, 5:49 AM**

The four generals strode professionally into Dr. Breen's office, taking up position in front of the luscious mahogany desk the Combine had salvaged from the building before they had gutted half of it and excavated the giant tunnel-like Advisor conference room and standing crisply to attention. Dr. Breen smiled, taking note of their enthusiastic and respectful nature toward their leader. _And some people speak their name as if it were a curse, _he thought grimly. _They say they are evil. I say they are misjudged._

He stood up from his cushioned seat behind the expensive desk, nodding politely at the company of officers. "Welcome, gentlemen. I trust you are ready to depart?"

"Indeed, sir." The Siberian general affirmed, nodding in reply. "I will be returning to my position as Commanding Officer in the Siberian Detachment."

When the other three generals kept their silence, Dr. Breen looked curiously over at them. "And what about you three, hmm?" he asked, smiling warmly. It was strange looking at him now, what with one of his arms missing along with the light, raw umber coloured brown sleeve of his suit jacket.

The Romanian Brigadier spoke up. "Sir, my unit was destroyed during the attack on White Forest last year, in October. The other two have also had their units destroyed, the Swede lost his to one of the Fissionist Gmen and the German was stationed at Rostock."

Dr. Breen nodded slowly. "Well, I think I may just have a suitable assignment for the three of you. Unfortunately, especially for the Romanian general here," he nodded at the Brigadier slowly, "it may not be the most enjoyable task you have been given during your service. However, rest assured that you will receive a substantial reward upon your success."  
Their Administrator had a way of cushioning everything that he said, but not in a deceptive manner but rather as a sort of comforting assurance. Sometimes, like now, it didn't really help as much as it did cause anxiety for what was to come.

"I have been informed of arrival of the Phyx by the Advisors, who I believe mentioned the news first coming from you, Lieutenant General," he looked over at the Swedish general, smiling. When he continued, however, his tone darkened slightly. "As such, I was also brought to light concerning their betrayal, something I think all of us should have considered a possibility. They have risen up against the Combine, and such an uprising will not go unpunished. I now entrust the three of you with the responsibility of making sure they receive justice."

He scanned the officers before him, unable to read the emotions veiled behind their masks, their eyes behind the mirrored lenses covering them. "As you may have gathered from my estimation of your displeasure at this assignment, the Phyx have been escorted to White Forest by one of the Gmen. A soldier from the Hamburg unit sent in to investigate the nuclear explosion reported this a few hours ago, since nobody other than you four and a select few soldiers actually knew about the warhead, after waking up in the ruins of Rostock having attempted to hide from the Member."

The generals made no physical reaction to this, other than nodding in affirmation. These were good soldiers, trained well and toughened up. "When will we be departing?"

"In about an hour, at seven o'clock." Dr. Breen answered. "You'll be going by helicopter, of course, and you should be there by about ten or so."

"Are we being assigned a unit to command?"

Their Administrator laughed softly, shaking his head. "The Brigadier would know why that's not going to be happening, wouldn't you?"

The Brigadier nodded grimly. Twelve thousand soldiers were killed at White Forest in four hours last year, all thanks to two Dr. Freemans and the Gman.

"So no, you will not be commanding a unit," Dr. Breen repeated. "Instead, you will all be attacking the base in secret. There's a thick forest of trees on the peak of the mountain, where the base is, so you'll have many places from which to go about your business."

"So this is a stealth operation?"

"Exactly," Dr. Breen affirmed. "All three of you will be armed with the cream of the crop, rifles with all the bells and whistles. Suppressors, telescopic sights, possibly some other form of detection attachment. I will have you escorted to the armoury soon, to get you loaded out."

The generals nodded again. "Very good, sir."

"Right, that will be all. Dismissed."

The soldiers saluted respectfully, turning on their heels and exiting from the office. Dr. Breen took his seat, smiling to himself. _However syncretic their political views may be, at least they know how to show due respect to their superiors. Probably the only connection they have with National Socialism._

He paused, thinking about that. _Oh, and both parties are resolutely Supremacist._

**White Forest, 7:19 AM**

"That was a rather vivid recollection, Dr. Freeman," the Gman noted calmly, leaning back in the hard metal chair he was sitting in around a small table.

"It was a rather vivid dream." Gordon answered shrugging as he sipped the warm foam cup of coffee in his gloved hand.

"I gathered that from your explanation." The Gman nodded.

Gordon smiled tightly, looking around the room casually. There were a few small clusters of people in there, but most of them were comprised of people eagerly watching him, wondering what was going on and if he'd give an explanation as to how he was alive. Before he turned around, Gordon had caught someone whispering something a bit too loudly about him being the 'other' Gordon, because he didn't have the scar on his cheek.

Apparently the other him had been wounded sometime after his death.

Catching the eye of someone, he waved subtly. The person smiled sort of awkwardly, before turning back to the people with him. Gordon chortled quietly, turning back to the Gman. "So, the nuke went off in Rostock, Germany? Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's the closest city to the German coast, isn't it?"

"Well, the city centre is quite far from the coast, but there is an estuary connected to the river Warnow, which goes through the city, and the city harbour is on the right of the L22 highway. It's actually quite close to where the hypocentre of the nuclear explosion was."

"Right," Gordon nodded. "And the Combine took Alyx there. Why would they do that?"

The Gman shrugged. "Obviously there must have been a reason, since Rostock is certainly not the closest city to Kiev in Ukraine. Of course, perhaps it was randomly selected, just to lead us off course."

"So in other words, you have no idea why they picked Rostock."

The Gman smiled, nodding slowly. "Last night, I inquired of the other Members. They had been monitoring one of the Hunter-Choppers that left Inferno Abyss after I destroyed it, and it flew to Rostock. Of course, Rostock is the closest non-Arctic city to Inferno Abyss, so that doesn't help. A convoy of Siberian Hunter-Choppers arrived the next day, before leaving again a mere ten minutes later. The Members are unsure of what this convoy was they were delivering, whether it be cargo or important personnel, but they have concluded it was important. By now, they told me they were extremely interested in Rostock, now it wasn't just because the officers from Inferno Abyss had gone there. A few hours later, a dropship arrived at the city, having come from none other than the Dnieper River in Ukraine, where the Romanian Resistance had been attacked and Alyx had been taken prisoner. Obviously she was onboard this dropship."

Gordon finished his coffee, setting the cup down. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. "Please continue."

"Nothing else happens for a few hours. Then, at about 7:30 PM, a Hunter-Chopper departs from Rostock, heading south-west. Not long after, another Ukrainian Hunter-Chopper arrives, however its vector was not the same one as the dropship from earlier, suggesting it hadn't come directly from Ukraine. As this is going on, I am inside the barracks holding cells, fighting my doppelganger. A little while later, two more Hunter-Choppers come, one of them is identified as Helix One, the one surviving chopper from the Ukrainian attack. Both choppers land in the New Market, and the rebels disembark. However, one of them gets back in his Hunter-Chopper and flies over to a nearby building. After opening fire on the roof, another chopper landed on it takes off. What happens next is evidence enough that the pilots of these two choppers were Dr. Gordon Freeman and Corporal Adrian Shephard. The Members swear that the pilot of the Resistance chopper jumped onto the other one, leaving his one to plummet to the ground. About a minute after this, the nuke is detonated and the whole city is blasted into oblivion."

"And you survived?"

"Exactly."

"But even after all this, you still don't know why they picked Rostock?"

"No," the Gman agreed. "What I do know is that the only Hunter-Chopper that could have had the nuclear device onboard it was one of the Siberian convoy. No other country from which any of these aircraft came from have nuclear weapons, other than Ukraine, but it removed all of its Weapons of Mass Destruction by 1995. Sweden doesn't have them, Romania doesn't have them, Germany doesn't have them, only Siberia does. Well, not directly, but since Siberia is part of Russia it's obvious that the nuclear device came from here."

"Do you know what type of nuke it was?"

"I am no expert in the field," the Gman replied, "so I cannot identify the many unique signatures left by the size, fallout intensity and heat of the blast. However, I can guess it was from a Russian missile, since the Combine would have a monumentally better chance of finding an operational warhead than a small suitcase bomb."

"Any ideas what type?"

"The most common missile type is the R-36, or the SS-18 Satan, according to its NATO reporting name. My guess is it was one of these."

Gordon nodded acquiescently, taking it all in. The information didn't help him, all it did was tell him what missile killed his best friend, the woman he loved and the other him. "I was hoping that would help me in some way."

"It does." The Gman frowned, as if confused at Gordon's remark. "You now know who was responsible for the death of your friends and who inadvertently demanded you be taken from your post-mortem paradise to fight."

Gordon paused, thinking about that. He was right, dammit, the Siberian Combine were the perpetrators. "Where did the Siberian Hunter-Chopper depart from, what city?"

"I don't know," the Gman affirmed. "I'll talk to the Fissionists, have them trace it back."

"Thanks," Gordon nodded. "Soon as you find out, I'm going to find out everything I can."

"Such as?"

"Well, surely this was all planned, right? I mean, why else would they take a Russian warhead all the way to Rostock? Obviously the Combine had intended on taking Alyx prisoner from the start. As bait for the other me, so he would right walk into the blast range of a nuke."

"And he did."

"But why _Rostock?_" Gordon whispered angrily, his aggravation at this whole situation starting to get the better of him. "Dammit, what's so special about it?"  
"Perhaps nothing," the Gman answered. "Maybe it was merely selected at random."

"I doubt it," Gordon snorted. "And as soon as you find out where the nuke came from, I'm going to find the answer for myself."

**Borealis**

The cold wind blew against his unprotected face, rustling his short cropped hair and pressed blue suit jacket. His tie flapped crazily in the howling gale as it whipped against the two sides of the seemingly bottomless crevasse in which he now stood. The thin metal bridge crossing both sides of the fissure stood strong against the wind, resolutely defying its strength. A light snow fell from high above, somehow unaffected by the harsh gust.

The man smiled tightly, looking calmly over at the pile of rebel bodies lying on the metal bridge. There were about thirty of them, their skin was as pale as the gathering snow, all the blood having frozen long ago. Their clothes were tossed about nosily, just as weak and lifeless as the corpses on which they were clad.

After a few moments of studying the white-eyed cadavers, the man bent over and shoved them over the edge. They fell through the howl of the wind, accelerating as gravity took hold of them like ragdolls dropped from a skyscraper. All of them reached terminal velocity before they hit the ground, and all of them disappeared into the light mist that obscured the bottom of the crevasse from where the man stood on the bridge. He didn't need to see the end result to know that they wouldn't explode, or shatter or anything as dramatic as that. They would just hit the ground and have most of their bones broken. The only time said carcasses could explode would be after a few weeks of gases and acids bloating up a corpse before the final climactic splatter of offal, mildewy liquids and waste that hadn't been excreted when the poor soul had been killed.

None of these bodies would suffer such a distasteful demise, for any form of gas inside them had condensed and frozen long ago.

The man watched the impenetrable mist for a few moments after all the bodies had faded away, before he slowly made his way back to the giant vessel imprisoned in its colossal tomb of ice.

He had many more bodies that needed to be disposed.

But there were two that he wanted to keep, as a sort of sadistic memento of the wonders that time had designed through its need to equilibrate.

* * *

**Yes, I know, there hasn't been very much action as of yet. But that's because this story is a hell of a lot more plot heavy than Episode 3. And I mean REALLY plot heavy, like character development is absolutely essential and action (which IS coming, and I promise it will be much better than Episode 3 to make up for the wait) is merely the delicious icing on an already excellent cake. At least, that's what I'm planning. **

**Seriously, things are going to get complicated, and I don't mean complicated as in integrating the Fissionist Faction into the accepted canon. No, I mean complicated as in multiple character arcs, conflicting emotions and of course, gigantic twists and deviation from the normal 'innocence' of acquiescently-evil-antagonist-empire against pure-and-just-rebellion-for-a-greater-good. Gordon, the Gman and even the Combine will go through some sort of extremely deviant revelation as this story progresses.  
**

**If that isn't incentive enough to read on, then I don't know what is. Rest assured you will like it.**


	16. Fifteen: Retribution

**-=Chapter Fifteen: Retribution=-**

**White Forest, 8:07 AM**

Gordon ate his toast alone, sitting at his table and chewing quietly. Some people watched him, others simply left him alone.

None of them understood.

None of them had seen the paradise he had.

None of them knew there was a place he could go if he killed himself now.

None of them could possibly feel how he did.

Forced to fight, the only thing pushing him forward being his conscience, the knowledge that the easy path would lead to the eventual shattering of the human Resistance and he would be responsible.

His life had no upside. There was nothing to fight for except death, for he knew what lay beyond this world.

And it was worth dying for, if only he got to see Alyx again.

Bowing his head, Gordon took another bite of his lukewarm toast as he lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly became aware that the room was oddly quiet. He looked up quickly, and quite a few people looked away.

Everyone was watching him.

_Why are you watching me?_

He couldn't stand it.

A few moments later, he got to his feet suddenly, heading for the door and shuffling outside hurriedly. Nobody made a sound, not even after he'd left.

A few moments after that, quiet conversation started up again.

—

It wasn't really a range, per se, but that was what it was used for and that's how it was intended to be used. Basically, it was a set of Overwatch bodies left over from the attack last year that had been impaled to three thick wooden poles, now hanging limp in front of them like some kind of failed crucifixions.

He found his weapons pretty easily, since they had all been kept in his room. There were quite a few belonging to the late Gordon Freeman, none of which he took. Right now, he was firing the little USP Match 9mm pistol he'd found down in a tunnel in City 17. He could remember clearly as day how angry he had been, watching the two police officers keeping the woman and the unconscious man restrained. They had shown no mercy to them, and neither had he.

That anger had brewed, and intensified, and now its full potential had been realised by Gordon. The straw that broke the camel's back, after everything he'd seen from that quiet detainment in the dark tunnels, to the massacre of the underground Resistance members running the 'railway' to Black Mesa East, to the sheer destruction caused by the Striders to City 17 when the Uprising finally began and even when the Hunter had damn near killed Alyx after stabbing her through the stomach, was this. The instantaneous destruction of what he had worked for, what he had fought for in both firefights and verbal combat against a senate of intergalactic ethereal guardians.

He had fought to keep Alyx safe.

And now that was destroyed. It had been in an instant, a millisecond between the ticking over of the final digit on the timer and the detonation of the nuclear warhead of the SS-18 or whatever rocket it had come from.

Whoever had been responsible was going to have to deal with the culminated feelings of fury and rage caused by all the Combine's sick deeds. He was going to find out everything he could about what had happened and why.

After that, everyone else who had been part of this would die.

He'd had enough.

—

At that exact moment, all around the globe, Dr. Breen's face had appeared on every screen in every Combine base around the world, some of which were deserted while others still were merely laughing at something they'd seen just before. One thing was unanimous, mind you, and that was everyone who saw his face paid immediate attention to the screen on which it was.

"It has been a long and hard year for all of us," Dr. Breen proclaimed almost proudly, a determined look plastered on his face, "and there is not one of us among the ranks of the Combine forces that does not know this. I myself suffered grave injuries after the attack on the Capital Citadel last October and was left for dead somewhere in the Strider-ridden remains of City 17."

At this, Dr. Breen turned his left side to the camera, showing clearly that both his sleeve and his arm were missing, the latter of which was now a sealed up stump of the remaining bone and skin. "Even now I have no recollection as to my arrival at that place where I lay, but what I do remember is that I was rescued by a unit of Overwatch soldiers who eventually got me the medical help I needed and brought me to where I am now, in the Advisor Conference Hall in Geneva.

"So now, as I stand here talking to all of you, I want each and every one of you to know that victory against the human race is not unobtainable. This, quite frankly, _stupid _globalinsurrection against the Combine was fuelled by the success of the Romanian Resistance, which in turn was fuelled by the unbelievable success of Dr. Gordon Freeman. I am proud to announce to all of you news that you may have already heard whispered rumours about, and proud to confirm to all of you that yes, this man and a number of Romanian fighters including Ms. Alyx Vance and the unlikely Mr. Barney Calhoun. This notorious trio are but a small number of the Resistance fighters killed when the soldiers at Rostock detonated a nuclear warhead sent to us from Siberia."

Many soldiers were taken aback at this information. _There was a nuclear bomb?_

"Countless brave soldiers sacrificed themselves for the Combine through presenting the facade that nothing was happening, and in some cases... the soldiers' presentation of this fabrication was because they were _oblivious _to the presence of the device."

_That _was going to be remembered as the biggest mistake of Dr. Wallace Breen's life. In an instant, half the soldiers listening were both shocked and disgusted at this revelation. _They didn't know they were going to die? Why hadn't they been _told_?_

Dr. Breen, completely unaware of this outrage, continued by answering their unspoken questions in a tone ever so nonchalant, "the Advisors made this decision, and I have put my trust in their calculated thoughts on the matter. Any concern you may have about this clearly _controversial _subject can only be met with the knowledge that the Advisor did what was best for the Combine. The Advisors represent the banner of the Universal Union, and they have not and _will not_ let us down."

By now, some soldiers had stopped listening. They were talking about this amongst themselves. Others continued listening, because after all, the Advisors knew what they were doing.

"Whatever negative reaction this subject has caused to surface is countered by the fact that Gordon Freeman, the man who both started this tiresome uprising and the misguided hope for the human race, is dead. This news will reach the people, and their morale will be destroyed by the knowledge that the manifestation of all their foolish hopes and dreams has been killed by the power of the Combine. I ask that everyone stay strong in these dark times, for the end has now come into sight. We are approaching the end of the fight, and the odds have turned in our favour. The human resistance will be crushed, and the power of the Combine will take its rightful position once more.

There will be no more insurrection from the people."

And with that, the Breencast ended.

In the moments after, all over the globe, a colossal number of soldiers got up and left the rooms they were in. The Advisors, it seemed, didn't seem to care about killing however many hundreds of soldiers were in Rostock at the time, if only it meant they could destroy Gordon Freeman.

Had this all been whittled down to some sort of vendetta against that man, rather than the enforcement of justice?

One man, a five star general stationed in eastern France, stood up for his thoughts after this announcement had concluded, "clearly, the Advisors have forgotten that we are not at war with the human race."

Across the globe, there were others of like mind. Apparently, the Advisors had convinced themselves they were fighting a war. Insurrection was not the same as warfare. The Combine had not declared any such form of conflict, merely they were suppressing the constant rebellion of the human race.

They were riot control against a global mob.

Not soldiers in a war against the human race.

And it seemed that someone needed to remind the Advisors of this little fact before they decided someone else wasn't important enough to be told they were going to die.

—

The body, although it was practically stapled to the pole, still shook violently upon the impact of the lead slug, the bullet slamming into its hardened flesh, the metal jacket shattering and sending the bullet itself tumbling through his skin and muscle, finally embedding itself somewhere deep inside his body, flattened into a small crumpled metal cap shaped object. By now, the bullet would have cause catastrophic damage to him body if he were still alive, which of course he wasn't.

Gordon lowered his pistol, observing the damage from where he stood about fifteen metres away. Not much technique, since he'd only been taught a little bit about stance at his cousin's back in 2001, a few months before he'd been forced to shoot government-issue German submachine guns and decommissioned special ops Italian shotguns at trained Marines and aliens after they had started tearing the personnel at Black Mesa to pieces.

_Stand sideways, making yourself a smaller target. Keep your legs shoulder width apart, stay balanced. Hold the pistol grip tightly with your dominant hand, and clasp your other hand over the fingers of the dominant hand. Bend the elbow of your non-dominant arm slightly, so it makes a wide angle, like a stretched out V. Make sure the sights are lined up, two rear pegs and one fore-peg in between them. Pistol's no good further than twenty five feet, any more than that and you're wasting your ammo. Reload your magazine whenever you stop firing, so that you're fresh in case you need heavy suppressing fire. And remember, it's called a magazine, not a clip. A clip is what loads bullets into a magazine, whether it be internal or external. Strip the rounds off._

His cousin had been a firearm fanatic, gathering anything federal law wouldn't prevent him from owning. He'd even had an old flamethrower, because apparently they aren't covered by federal law. Gordon thought that was pretty stupid. Biggest thing he'd ever fired at his cousin's was a semi-automatic civilian version of the M16, the AR-15. That had been enough for him. How ironic was it he now relished the thought of using guns, not just at a range but to kill. His cousin was probably dead, the poor bastard. Might've lasted a while against the invaders, but Gordon would bet any money he was dead and gone by now.

"Have you heard the news?" the Gman asked casually, walking up beside him. Gordon turned, not having heard him coming. Perhaps he hadn't, he had just appeared out of the ether. He doubted it though, since most times he saw him he had come from some sort of doorway when he wasn't stopping time like he had back before Gordon and Alyx had reached White Forest.

"I was inquiring of the origins of the nuclear warhead," the Gman continued regardless, "when the Fissionists projected a certain broadcast of Dr. Wallace Breen. Apparently, he is still alive somewhere. Would you like to hear the details of this broadcast?"

Gordon nodded slowly, not exactly sure how serious this was. The Gman chuckled quietly, "basically the message was directed at the Combine forces, and it made the bold proclamation that you were dead because the Advisors had incinerated your body, along with that of Ms. Vance and Mr. Calhoun, in the blast of the nuclear warhead."

Gordon didn't know why, but that didn't cause any feelings of cocky supremacy over the ignorant Advisors, but rather made him feel sick inside at their confidence to label him dead, and hearing once more that Alyx and Barney were too. "Yep," was all he gave as a reply, nodding quickly.

"The Fissionists have also traced the origins of the warhead successfully," the Gman added, trying to cheer Gordon up with the prospect of exacting his vengeance on the people who had sent it to Rostock, "it was delivered, by way of Siberian Hunter-Chopper convoy carrying one of their top people, a five star general, from a Siberian Combine base built outside the city of Krasnoyarsk. The base is staffed by about six hundred Siberian soldiers, and is about the same size as White Forest. The Fissionists have also spotted a Hunter-Chopper leaving the Palace of Nations in Geneva heading in the direction of this base. They have made the estimation that this is the Siberian general returning to his unit, after speaking with the Advisors in Switzerland. With any luck, Dr. Freeman, you will be able to intercept him and kill him. After all, he is the man that will satisfy both the answers you desire and your thirst for revenge."

Gordon looked over at him at him, smiling tightly. "Excellent. What's his ETA?"

"The Fissionists have made the assumption of five hours, considering stopping to refuel. Perhaps we can arrange some sort of interruption during such refuelling?"

Gordon chuckled to himself, nodding. "Sounds like a plan."

The Gman nodded. "Indeed."

**Dzyarzhynskaya Hara, Belarus, 11:01 AM**

Dzyarzhynskaya Hara, a humble hill west of the Belarusian capital of Minsk, was not a very remarkable place. There wasn't really anything outstandingly unique about it. Basically just a large hill near the capital, possibly a good place for a picnic in pre-Combine times, it wasn't some sort of obvious national landmark.

That made it perfect for Combine operations such as refuelling air bases such as the one here, formally titled Vinnjaskon Aviation Support.

It wasn't a very big place, only about the size of half a football oval made of concrete. The ground was flat and there were a few corrugated iron hangars here and there, housing some Combine aircraft and an underground supply of Hunter-Chopper fuel and bioenergy needed to keep the sentient portion of gunships and dropships operating properly.

The personnel there were all waiting for the arrival of the Hunter-Chopper that was carrying the Siberian general, who was on his way back to his unit in the Combine base near Krasnoyarsk. His chopper would take about fifteen minutes to refuel, and during that time the staff were intending on making the officer feel welcome.

His chopper landed in a flurry of dust and loud whirring blades, blowing the fatigues of those closest to one of many helipads there. The Commanding Officer of the base, a Belarusian Combine colonel, was the first to greet the general with a warm gloved handshake as he descended his helicopter. "Glad to have you here, sir," the colonel nodded friendlily, "it's an honour to have someone of such rank coming down to our humble little air base."

The Siberian general looked around, taking the temperature into account. He was used to colder, but this was still unpleasant. Nobody in the Combine forces liked the cold since it was so contrasting to the majority of their planets' climates, especially the Capital, from which every soldier on this unpredictable little smudge of a planet had come. "Doesn't look all that bad," he added, taking a few steps away from his chopper. "Well, I trust that my tour will be free of charge?"

The colonel laughed politely. "Yes, yes, of course. Come, I will show you around." He walked toward the collection of buildings at the other end of the airfield, while the others either returned to their posts or began moving the Hunter-Chopper over to the closest refuelling pump, the crew also jumping out the help them.

—

Since Romania was significantly closer to Belarus than Switzerland Gordon was only eight minutes later than the Siberian general at getting to Vinnjaskon base, despite the fact that he had to wait for the recently prepared — and stolen — Hunter-Choppers taking the place of Helixes One through Three and left about two and a half hours after the Siberian general had left Geneva.

Gordon could pilot a helicopter, but he was no expert. Fortunately, Hunter-Choppers were apparently designed for quadriplegic invalids with Down syndrome because most of the essential flicks and switches took care of themselves. In fact, the only thing that had to be manually operated was effectively equal to what one would need to operate a car with manual transmission.

Gordon had his license, he'd learnt to drive a manual first and had stayed with it up until the end of the world, so he could fly.

But that wasn't the upside to all this. No, shooting the Combine general who'd blown up his friends and forced his to be pulled from his idyllic afterlife was what he was really looking forward to.

He could do that all from the air. The rapid-fire heavy calibre pulse turret on the side of the chopper would make light work of the entire base, since he was certain there were more than one topside fuel pipes that could easily catch fire and blow up the entire facility. But he needed information, and since dead men tell no tales he'd have to do things the hard way.

Besides, the personal factor was removed when you did it from the air.

—

The Hunter-Chopper's crew stood around the aircraft, leaning against it as the air base personnel fuelled it up. They said they'd be done in about five minutes and to be honest, it wasn't exactly the most exciting thing in the world to stand around a small air base waiting for your chopper's tank to fill up.

"Did either of you hear Dr. Breen's broadcast?" one of the crew asked casually, having kept his silence for a few minutes.

One of the others nodded. "I thought he was dead, tell you the truth. Only found out he was alive a few hours before the broadcast."

"You're not alone, comrade," the third soldier agreed. "But what I want to know is why it took him over a year to show up. I would understand a week, perhaps even a month at the most. But thirteen months?"

"I know," the first soldier added, "I mean, it's not like we don't have the hardware to fix him up and get him to Geneva in a few days."

The other two soldiers nodded in agreement, leaning back against the helicopter. Suddenly, the second guy straightened up, looking around. "What's that noise?" he asked quietly, walking out from behind the Hunter-Chopper. Instantly, he spotted the Hunter-Chopper landing and frowned under his mask. _Who's this?_

A few of the personnel also moved closer to the chopper, apparently as confused as the crew. As they approached, they were met by the incredible appearance of someone they had been told mere hours previously was undeniably dead.

Freeman stepped from the chopper's cabin, smiling as if he were in some kind of satirical, high-octane B-movie and opened fire on the disbelieving crew before their brains could register the impossible fact that a dead man was shooting them. His MP7 chattered mechanically, spewing relentless lead at the soldiers that shook them as blood splattered from their wounds and thrust them to the ground.

In that moment, the whole base went absolutely crazy.

Gordon wasted no time in running toward the refuelling Hunter-Chopper, opening fire on the surprised and confused crew as they ran for it, trying to grab their handguns from the holsters by their sides before they became slug sandwiches. Two of them didn't make it, taking a rain of small calibre bullets to their lightly armoured backs. They were down in seconds, the final guy stumbling as he ran. Finally, he got his pistol up and sloppily returned fire, making a quick and frankly awful attempt at a double tap. The shots went far wide as Gordon jumped behind the refuelling chopper, dropping to the ground and lying prostrate as he aimed at the crew member's legs from the gap under the helicopter.

A short burst was all he needed to incapacitate him, dropping him instantly. Gordon crawled under the chopper entirely, looking around the concreted area at running soldiers, both going away from and toward him. The ones running weren't the problem, at least not at the moment, so Gordon instead targeted the soldiers coming for him, fortunately all of them closely spaced together. Firing at them between the standard assortment of ammo and supply crates that always seemed to get left around airfields like this for some arbitrary reason, he took a few down before most of them took cover behind these crates. The ejected casings bounced off the underside of the chopper, clinking almost melodically as they hit both the smooth metal and the subsequent concrete ground.

Most of the soldiers were taking cover behind a denser collection of wooden crates Gordon estimated were about thirty metres away. Shrugging to himself, he opened fire on the closer ones. The third one he shot at conveniently exploded, surprising even him. Evidently he'd hit some of the ammunition and ignited the gunpowder, though he wasn't sure how that actually worked since the bullets weren't on fire, but whatever, it had happened so he'd better use it to his advantage.

To be honest, not many soldiers had survived the explosion. A few had climbed to their feet, one with a nasty plank of splintered wood sticking out of his hip dripping blood, and were now firing blindly at Gordon as they stood in plain sight. They weren't doing that badly, really, since the continuous crack and clang of supersonic bullets hitting the Hunter-Chopper were enough to convince Gordon to back up a bit before returning fire. The guy with the injured leg went down, glistening flecks of blood hitting his reloading comrades. Gordon took his chance to get back on his feet and go around to the front of the chopper, relentlessly firin—

_Click-click-click-click!_

Empty.

Gordon instantly regretted his poor timing, throwing himself back behind the chopper as the last few rounds of the empty magazine hit a second soldier. The final guy started running toward the chopper as Gordon hastily reloaded, bullets slamming into the cockpit of the Hunter-Chopper as the soldier charged at him, the constant sound of cracking glass pounding in his ears from right above him. Finally, Gordon snapped his head around, saw the soldier firing at him and simply threw his lightweight gun at the soldier's face, stunning him momentarily as Gordon scrambled to his feet and dived at him, colliding with his stomach and sending them both crashing to the ground, both Gordon's and his guns clattering to the ground almost simultaneously.

Rage still a large part of Gordon's seemingly primal actions and reactions he began to brutally punch the guy's mask with a gloved fist while wrapping his other hand around his neck, to which that weird petrol-cap shaped device was connected. Finally, the guy went limp as blood and chips of shattered grey plastic-like mask covered Gordon's knuckles. Gordon got to his feet, looking frantically around for his gun and found it and the hastily loaded magazine lying a few metres apart from each other. The magazine hadn't gone in to its well properly, or so it seemed, so Gordon quickly scooped it up and rectified that before looking around. Most of the airfield was empty now, a few people standing in wide-open doorways, waiting for him to get closer.

Studying the larger buildings of the base, Gordon tried to narrow down the possible choices he had. The general was going to be inside one of them, but there wasn't really any way he could actually tell which one that was. He guessed it was going to be one of the smaller personnel areas like the commander's office, but he didn't know which one that was.

A bullet flew past his left side, about three metres off target. It was enough to make Gordon jump, but apart from that things were still OK. It would probably be a better idea to hide, though. Gordon turned around, looking at the helicopter just behind him. Without a second thought, he pulled the double doors into the cabin open, before slamming them shut again. Quickly, he headed for the cockpit since he was expecting the soldiers to take the opportunity he'd just presented on a silver platter, but he found something quite surprising in the copilot's seat.

There was a bullet-riddled soldier lying slumped in the seat, his head lying limp on the dashboard. Small flecks of blood had hit the cracked glass and even now they were running down the transparent windows like crimson rain.

_Cracked glass..._

Gordon allowed himself a tight smile at the irony. The soldier whose face he'd just punched in had shot the bastard as he tried to get Gordon. Shaking his head, Gordon slipped into the pilot's seat and laid a hand on the guy's back, patting him firmly in mock sympathy. "Sucks to be you, mate." He muttered with a smug grin plastered on his lips.

Looking out the cracked and partially shattered cockpit windows, Gordon saw that the soldiers were indeed running toward the Hunter-Chopper from no less than five different places on the other side of the airfield. The closest people were about fifty metres away and closing in fast, so Gordon pulled the dead crewman from his seat and dropped him unceremoniously on the ground before slamming the butt of his MP7 into the cracked glass, shattering a large portion of it entirely before turning it around and shooting at the approaching soldiers.

What followed was a pretty brief gunfight consisting of Gordon shooting the closest guys, most of them dying and everyone still alive throwing themselves to the ground. After this, Gordon decided to screw all his intelligent defence and preservations instincts and instead grab a grenade from his recently reclad metrocop combat webbing, throw it out the window and then run to the cabin doors and tear them open in a manner of vigour verging on heroic and charge toward the enemy at the same time as the grenade exploded, sending bits of charred wood and flakes of smoked flesh flying all over the previously neat and tidy concrete.

Since most of the soldiers had taken cover and lain down on the ground, half of them didn't even see Gordon until the orange blur that was his suited legs had appeared and the unseen head above had given the signal to his hands to shoot whoever they were dead. After the first few bursts of gunfire, some of the further back enemies peered over the cover they had taken only to see not their own men shooting at the enemy but the enemy running toward them with his gun spraying hot lead.

Just after another group of curious soldiers had received complimentary brain piercings, Gordon fired off the last rounds of his magazine and heard the rapid _click-click-click _once more, causing him to almost reflexively throw himself to the ground and reload. A group of soldiers nearby heard him hit the ground, stood up from their cover and received a fair share of buckshot to their stupid faces.

Gordon holstered the small automatic weapon quickly, pointing his shotgun around as he did, waiting for someone else to pop up like ducks at a shooting range. And that's all they were to him, thin board cut-outs waiting to have half their bodies ripped off by the power of his arsenal. As he got to his feet, he pumped the action and looked around at all the crates lying around, scanning them for movement. Slowly, he advanced through them, keeping a wary eye in case someone made to jump at him.

A soldier poked his head up to Gordon's right. Instantly, the shotgun muzzle had been swung around, spewed fire and metal and blasted the soldier's head to pieces. Gordon pumped the action as two more popped up and each took a single shell's worth of buckshot to their faces as the first shell hit the ground with a hollow clinking noise.

Suddenly, something slammed into the small of his back, smacking right into his light armour and leaving a sizable dent where the bullet had been a moment before it crumpled and fell off. Without a split second delay Gordon had spun around and fired right at the incapacitated soldier, lying on the ground with a pistol in his hands. The shot ripped his chest to shreds, tearing his grey fatigues open and shredding the pale flesh covering his sternum. Blood went everywhere.

Silence.

Gordon slowly turned on his heels, making to pump the action again before he spotted the soldier right in front of him, pointing the glistening barrel of a Colt Python revolver in his bespectacled face. "_Don't_. _Freaking._ _Move._" He snarled through the filters of his mouthpiece, barely a hint of fear in his tone. If there was any, he hid it pretty damn well.

Gordon thought about his options. His gun wasn't cocked, so there were no rounds in the chamber. That meant he couldn't make a shot, and they guy undoubtedly knew it. Then again, he hadn't told him to raise his hands or drop the weapon so that gave Gordon and extra turn to think before he did.

The guy wasn't expecting him to move, obviously familiar with how the human brain worked: guy points a gun at you, you do what the guy wants.

His feet were facing the guy, but his body was still turned sideways since he had been turning around before he was interrupted. If he'd been facing the guy on the full, his waist wouldn't have been as flexible to pivot and duck out of the way of a bullet. Because he was on his side, though, the meant he could duck and bend as easily as bending over forwards. That was one thing checked off: avoid the bullet. His reaction was settled, but he needed his own _counteraction _to put him on the high ground.

His shotgun was down by his side, held tightly in both his hands. Good grip. He could easily duck _and _swing his shotgun up into the guy's extended arm, possibly even cock the gun while he was doing so and end it. Problem was, if he wasn't fast enough it came down to his gun being uncocked and the soldier's one being cocked, ready to fire.

_What the hell._

"Alright, p—"

The guy had started talking. That meant he wouldn't be expecting a reaction until he'd finished. Act quickly.

So Gordon did. In a split second, he'd ducked down and pivoted his waist around, presenting his side to the soldier at the exact same moment as he brought the thick frame of his shotgun into the soldier's outstretched arm. The force that the gun hit the middle of his ulna bone with was enough to fracture it in multiple places, and it did. The bone shattered internally, causing the soldier to reflexively drop his gun and grab his arm in pain a moment before Gordon straightened back up, brought the shotgun back around from the blow he'd inflicted and pointed it right in the unarmed soldier's face. "Where's the general?" he demanded, growling darkly.

The soldier made a noise combining both a frantic whimper and a timid growl.

"_Tell me!_" Gordon practically screeched.

"Alright!" the soldier screamed. "He's over in the colonel's office, the one next to the furthest hangar over there!" he pointed weakly with his good arm, at the far left corner of the air base.

Gordon nodded. "Thanks." He bent down and scooped up the soldier's revolver. He paused momentarily, looking at him. "You're not Siberian, are you?"

The soldier shook his head. "I work here." He offered quietly.

Gordon smiled, offering him the pistol grip from out of his reach, hesitating. "If you want, you can take a shot at me after I've turned my back. Just remember, I'm not gonna kill you now because I'm not out to get you, and whatever bullshit your commanders or whoever have fed you saying I'm some kind of anti-Combine purist is utter crap. But if you _do _take a shot at me," he leaned closer to his hidden eyes, "I will _not _die and I _will _make sure you do. I might even make it hurt more; karma's orders."

He handed the soldier his revolver, who took it tentatively. Gordon gave him a brief nod before he briskly walked toward the colonel's officer, pumping his shotgun as he went. He didn't look back for two reasons: one, he trusted the guy wouldn't shoot out of sheer terror at Gordon's violent efficiency and two, that might make him think he wasn't completely confident that he wouldn't be shot at, which he was.

So he didn't look back. The soldier just watched him go, frowning to himself as he looked down at his revolver, turning it in his hand.

Then he uncocked the hammer, and took one final look at Gordon as he headed after his colonel and the Siberian general.

* * *

**Well, people, I hope that was satisfactory, because the action has finally come and from here on out the action/talking ratio will be about 2:1. That means two times more action than talking, possibly even threefold. I dunno. But this isn't the epitome of what I can do. Oh no, Gordon didn't even blow anything up here. If you thought the end of Episode 3 was good then... well, I guess you're right, it was, but this will probably be better. **

**Yes. Better than having the Gman break a mountain. **

**So I hope you're looking forward to it!**


	17. Sixteen: Amelioration

**-=Chapter Sixteen: Amelioration=-**

**Borealis, 11:09 AM**

"I've located him."

"So now you're handing the baton over to me?"

"Precisely."

"Where is he?"

"Vinnjaskon Aviation Support. It's a Combine airbase just west of the Belarusian capital of Minsk. Not very big. The Siberian general who delivered the nuclear device I informed you of earlier has landed there to refuel on his way back to his unit in Krasnoyarsk. The Fissionist Faction must be assisting Freeman, explaining how he found them so easily."

"And now you've found him yourself."

"Took me a while longer, but ultimately you are correct."

"So how am I getting there?"

There was a quiet chuckle. "The same way you got into this ship, my dear Corporal."

**Vinnjaskon Aviation Support, Belarus, 11:16 AM**

Gordon patted the pockets of his combat webbing, checking how many grenades he had left on him. According to his count, there were a total of seven fragmentation grenades in a collection of pockets across his waist. Silently pulling one from his webbing, he proceeded to rip out the pin, place the explosive on the ground against the door to the colonel's office and hurry around the corner of the building.

A few seconds later, the grenade exploded, a gigantic wave of heat and pressure blasting out in all directions. Even from behind his 'cover' Gordon could feel it, but fortunately none of the shrapnel hit him. A second after it had exploded, Gordon threw himself around the corner, into the smoking doorway. He was met with the sight of the colonel and the Siberian general both wearing different coloured fatigues that Gordon easily differed between, judging by the snow-camo patterns on one of them — the Siberian.

They were both sitting on the far side of a wooden desk, sitting in their chairs as if nothing strange was happening. However, they also both had 9mms in their gloved hands and wasted no time in firing straight at him. Gordon also dared not delay, ducking while firing inaccurately at the colonel's location. Now behind the desk, Gordon moved back from it and opened fire, spraying bullets around at about the same height as the soldiers' legs.

The 4.6mm bullets of his MP7 were specially designed to pierce body armour like Kevlar, so they had no trouble travelling through the thin wood of the desk into the soft pale flesh of the soldiers' legs. At the sound of their instinctive groans, Gordon jumped to his feet and fired three quick rounds into the stomach of the colonel, blood splattering and flesh shredding sickeningly from the close range attack. The colonel fell forward in his chair, his body slipping off the seat limply as Gordon threw himself over the desk and crashed into the Siberian general, knocking him backwards off his chair into the white plaster wall behind him.

The general wasn't about to give in so easily, so he struggled against the weight of Gordon's armoured frame lying upon him as he was disarmed, after a short moment of boot heel crushing the bones in his right arm. Having lost his weapon, the general instead tried rearing up and headbutting Gordon.

Heatbutts are perfect as an attack, since the average person doesn't expect something as unusual or desperate as it. Ironically, it's actually one of the best things one can do when in a punch up. The bone in your forehead is unbreakable, and it has to be to protect your brain, so don't worry about fracturing it. The worst you'll do to yourself is get one bloody hell of a throbbing head.

Unfortunately for the general, Gordon wasn't exactly in the mood to get a broken nose so he quickly reared back, bringing one of his fists into the general's oncoming face so that he wouldn't use this reflex as a chance to throw Gordon off him. The general's head came crashing back to earth, breathing heavily thanks to both the punch and the scientist pinning him down.

Gordon, having both the general's arms pinned down with his boots and out of the range of the general's legs, calmly pulled his shotgun from its place strapped around his shoulders. "I'm pretty sure I cocked this..." Gordon muttered, indirectly talking to the general as a he pumped the action. A loaded shell popped out of the chamber. "Uh-huh," Gordon nodded, picking it back up and reloading it calmly, "thought so."

The general offered nothing in this ominously relaxed conversation.

"So, Siberian general, or whatever honorary level of shit the Combine has bestowed upon your shoulders," Gordon continued, his tone suddenly taking a dark edge, "I hear you had something to do with my _death_, didn't you?"

This contradictory statement seemed to bring a fresh wave of realisation over the general that Gordon Freeman, the man he had undoubtedly killed with the nuke in Rostock, was pointing a loaded pump-action shotgun in his face.

But had they really killed him? He hadn't seen Freeman in Rostock with his own eyes, since by the time the Romanian rebels had arrived they were already halfway to Geneva. Of course, why wouldn't he be the one to lead the rescue mission to save Ms. Vance?

Gordon chuckled coldly. "Guess that doesn't really make much sense, does it? Well, don't hold your breath for any sort of clarification from me, because you're not going to get any. Besides, you won't have any use for it where you're going."

The Siberian general seemed unperturbed by this sinister remark. Of course, his face was masked...

"Anyway, I could have cut all this intense business with a simple burst of gunfire while I was still in the air. Could've sent this whole facility sky-high by igniting the stockpile of fuel underground and put out the flames roasting your body with my piss." Gordon grinned, his eyes burning with hatred. "But I didn't. Because I need you to tell me something. It's OK if you don't cooperate, remember that. There is nothing on God's earth that will stop me from finding the answers I need. Hell, I've got a council of omnipotent guardians backing me."

_The Fissionists..._

"But hey, since I'm here I might as well try and get some answers from _you._"

The general didn't make a sound. Then, after a few moments of tense silence, a garbled chuckle escaped his filtered mouth. "I'm not gonna waste my breath on you, Freeman."

Gordon smiled thinly. "Oh, but you appear to be right now."

"Save the bullshit, Freeman," the general snarled, "you're nothing but a lucky little smartarse whose brain got him this far. And if my theory is correct, it wasn't enough to keep you alive last year at White Forest, was it?"

Gordon's smile faltered a fraction. Apparently this guy knew — or at least, he'd pieced together — everything about the Phyx and the attack on White Forest last year.

The general picked him up on that minute detail and laughed. "Huh, I was right. Look, Freeman, you're nothing. You lasted less than a month in the real world. I've been here twenty one years and I started as a Sergeant guarding the Russian-Gregorian border from cocky little human bastards like you. Now look at me, I'm a five-star general commanding multiple regiments of soldiers in Siberia."

Gordon shook his head, smiling to himself. "Isn't that nice? Remember, there's a shotgun pointed in your face, so I would recommend being _very_ careful about what you say."

The general laughed. "Why would I do that? I'm already prepared to die."

Gordon smiled tightly. "A bit unnecessarily, I would think. Whoever said I was going to kill you?"

The general didn't say anything.

"After all, I told you I need you to tell me something."

The general chuckled quietly. "Which is?"

Gordon smiled inside. Was he making progress? It didn't matter, anyway, "I want to know who was responsible for the nuking of Rostock, apart from yourself."

The general snorted. "What, and if I tell you you'll let me go? Cut the crap, Freeman, everyone knows you're merciless with the Combine."  
Gordon laughed. Loudly and filled with mirth. "You didn't see me spare that guy out there, did you?"

The general laughed. "Bullshit."

"I swear on my life, I didn't shoot him. I merely disarmed him and gave him his gun back after breaking his arm."

The general obviously didn't believe him. "Do you know _why _I did that?"

"No."

"Because I'm _not _like the Combine," Gordon whispered. "I wouldn't blow up a city filled with hard working, patriotic soldiers just to attain some sort of personal agenda. That's what it is, isn't it? This isn't about stopping the Resistance, is it? It's about killing _me_."

"You're wrong, Freeman!" the general snarled angrily, "you and your kind are blind! How is it you cannot see we are your salvation? Here we are, operating a global authoritarian community, a subsection of the most pacifistic nation in the universe, and all you do is try and disrupt it with violence and disdain?"

Gordon laughed again. "Salvation? Pacifistic? You're pulling that out of your ass, general. Why do you think we rebelled? Because we don't like peace, is that what you're saying? Because we have to fight your 'pacifistic community'? How can you call us blind, when every single _fucking _day the Combine enforces their brutal restrictions on us, removing any and everyone who even raises a finger against your crimes?"

"What crimes, Freeman?" the general roared. "Invasion? We have saved you; you have merged with the greater good and become part of the striving for perfection! Your governments were running this planet into the ground; there was civil unrest and fighting everywhere! We came along, and all that has stopped! The only fighting there has been since we arrived on this forsaken planet is from humans trying vainly to remove us from this planet! Humans have not taken up arms against each other for over twenty years, and yet you continually fight _us_? For what purpose? We fight you to quench this futile resistance, so that we can return to our plan for total pacifism and perfection! The human race is only making things worse for itself, like it has and always _will_!"

Gordon glared at the general, shaking his head in disbelief. "You honestly believe this? You believe it is reasonable for us to accept the brutality and poverty you have caused? Tell me this, general, if you can: if you are striving for peace and perfection, then why have you forced us into urban centres like City 17, poverty ridden slums filled with oppression and sorrow? Why are you, an apparently 'pacifistic' nation so brutal when it comes to law enforcement? Why did you suppress our ability to reproduce? If you are as peaceful as you claim, then why have you done all these things to a species that was perfectly fine the way it was? We were free, we had rights, we lived in a society of lenience and plenty. Ever since you arrived, getting a decent meal has become almost impossible. We are not citizens of a community striving for perfection, we are _slaves _of an authoritarian society obsessed with themselves and their own advancement!"

The general shook his head, trying to look past the shotgun in his face. "Your arrogance will be your downfall, Freeman. The human race is so resolutely assured by its own understanding of how the universe works that it shuns and rejects any form of deviation. We have tried to establish an authoritarian government to save you from yourselves, but you consistently and blindly fight the lifestyle we have enforced. Why? Because it is different? You are like children, refusing to learn new things. And like foolish children, you will eventually amount to nothing and die."

Gordon sighed. "So I'm guessing you're not going to tell me who helped you."  
"No, I'm not. Because of how ignorant you are to the irrefutable truth. We are your salvation, and yet you reject us. Besides, you're going to kill me."  
"How do you know that?"

"Even if you are telling the truth about the soldier you spared, I will not be so fortunate. I was responsible for the murder of you and your friends and you want me dead for it."

Gordon sighed. "You're right, of course. I'd just like to ask you something before I do kill you: if you believe you are perfect, then why did you see fit to sacrifice those soldiers? And, if what you say is true and this has nothing to do with me personally, then why did you do something as desperate as that?"

The general paused before answering. "We do not believe we are perfect," he replied, "we simply believe it is attainable. As for why we did it, I follow the orders of the Advisors."

Gordon smiled. "That's what I thought. Have you considered that the Advisors have interpreted this differently?"

The general paused again. "No."

Gordon nodded. "Didn't think so."

And with that, he pulled the trigger.

—

Gordon walked from the shrapnel-riddled doorway of the colonel's office, looking out at the large midday vista he could see from where he was. The cloudless sapphire sky and sunlight glistened high above him, lighting up the giant space of concrete stretching out before him. On the far side of the airfield lay the felled soldiers Gordon had come up against not ten minutes ago, along with the splintered remains of supply crates and blood. The Hunter-Chopper still hooked up to the refuelling pump was completely wrecked, with the cockpit windscreen shattered almost entirely and the whole left side of the aircraft covered in tiny indents from the onslaught of Combine weaponry.

There wasn't a soul to be seen across the entire base. It was as quiet as the grave Gordon had recently departed... just so he could send others there to take his place in limbo.

Gordon started walking again, heading back to his Hunter-Chopper...

... at the same time as a bullet went flying past the back of his head, cracking the air around his head with a deafening bang. Instinctively, Gordon broke into a run, looking around for his assailant. He couldn't tell the size of the bullet and he hadn't heard the gunshot, so he couldn't tell where the bullet had come from. He doubted it had been a suppressed weapon, though, judging by the sound of the bullet. A silenced barrel would decrease muzzle velocity and consequently alter the sound of the bullet as it went past him. That meant it also wasn't a subsonic bullet, since he'd heard the ballistic crack loud and clear.

After a few moments of running and frantic scanning of the peak to his left, he spotted something up at the highest point of the hill to the left of the airfield, which was located on a level part of the Dzyarzhynskaya Hara close to the peak: there was a brown coloured lump sticking out just above the ridge of the hill.

_Sniper..._

Gordon had no idea who it was, but he guessed that it was a soldier from the base who'd happened to escape his wrath. After all, nobody else was around that would want him dead and nobody else could possibly have known he was coming here to Vinnjaskon base with enough heads up to get themselves ready.

He didn't really have time to stop and see who it was, though, since things hadn't gone as he had hoped. That meant he had no time to waste in his endeavour for vengeance. He reached his Hunter-Chopper without further incident, though he could see the lump on the hill moving ever so subtly, realigning its aim and centring his crosshair. If he was smart, he'd be compensating for gravity by aiming for Gordon's hair, and since there was no wind things would be easier for him.

And that meant things were going to be harder for Gordon.

Gordon's Hunter-Chopper was facing the other end of the airfield, since he'd come from the front and landed similarly. That meant the pilot's side of the chopper was facing the hill — the Combine had opted to put it on the right side of the aircraft, for some odd reason — and that meant Gordon's head would be so much easier to hit.

That was bad.

Gordon went around to the left side of his chopper, out of the sniper's sights. Of course, now he'd be aiming at the cockpit, if he was smart, waiting for Gordon to sit down and try to escape.

That's why Gordon wasn't going to sit down. He needed to find a way to distract the sniper, or at least stop him from getting a clear shot at him.

Rushing into the cabin, Gordon pulled the double doors closed and dropped to the ground, crawling over to the cockpit. Pulling the door open, he pulled himself into the cockpit and closed the door behind him, crawling along the floor.

Gordon dragged himself into a corner near the pilot's seat, pondering his options. Number one, he couldn't get up unless he wanted to die. Number two, he couldn't pilot the aircraft in any way, since he had to see the controls to do that and he couldn't from where he was without revealing his nice, juicy target of a skull.

_Think, Freeman..._

He had to think outside the box. There had to be a way for him to outsmart the sniper, in a way he wouldn't be expecting.

Gordon considered the sniper's point of view. What could he see? What was he looking at right now?

_He'd be looking at the cockpit window, specifically the pilot side. _

So what did that mean for him?

_He'd be looking through his scope, which would be zoomed in on the cockpit and most likely showing not much else._

That meant that he could possibly find another way out without alerting the guy, making him think that he was still hiding inside the Hunter-Chopper. Gordon smiled to himself, not daring to raise himself any higher than a few centimetres above the ground as he quietly snuck back over to the cockpit door. Hopefully the guy wouldn't be watching from a range that allowed him to see the door.

Gordon hurried back to the left-side cabin doors, pulling them open quietly, afraid that the guy could somehow see him. Which was entirely possible, just not very likely, but it didn't really help encouraging him.

Closing the doors behind him as he got slowly to his feet, Gordon shrugged internally. _What the hell?_

He ran for the other chopper, the one still hooked up to the pump, taking a wide arc angled away from his chopper and heading over to the double doors in the side of that chopper, pulling them open hastily and throwing himself inside.

If the sniper had been watching, he would now be trying to find a window through which to get Gordon. Cautiously, Gordon looked around the cabin. The only windows were the ones in the sides of the chopper, and since the back was facing the hill that meant the sniper couldn't see in.

Gordon smiled again, getting to his feet and jumping into the cockpit. He quickly strapped himself in and checked all the dials and things he needed to, looking to see if anything was wrong. On the floor lay the discarded body of the guy who'd been in the copilot's seat earlier, the memory subconsciously telling Gordon to look at the cockpit glass. It was completely shattered, covered in a canvas of intricate glass spiderwebs extending out across the entirety of the window panels. Shaking his head, Gordon promptly ignoring this matter.

Then something caught his eye on the dashboard.

Frowning, Gordon looked at the light closely. It was a small sign glowing red on the dashboard, with small red letters forming a short sentence indicating that the chopper was completely refuelled but it was still hooked up to the pump.

Gordon scolded himself on the inside. In his blind rush to escape the possible eagle eye of his assailant, he'd forgotten the Hunter-Chopper was still connected to the refuelling pump.

Could he still take off?

He considered the thought for a few pensive moments, before shrugging calmly and starting up the rotary blades.

The chopper started beeping incessantly, demanding he stop with his positively ridiculous tomfoolery. Gordon ignored it, reminding himself silently that he would only act to redeem this situation if it proved detrimental to his escape. Which, it turned out, wasn't the case.

Rising slowly into the air, the roar of air and helicopter blades all around him, Gordon heard a wince-inducing crunch as the fuel pump snapped clean off, the chopper's mechanical devices screaming furiously at him for his idiotic behaviour, which Gordon wished would just shut the hell up and let him fly.

He rose another twenty feet, before spinning the chopper around in midair...

... and receiving a welcoming heart attack as something exploded beneath him. Frantically wrestling with the controls, Gordon squinted as a plume of searing flames licked at the bottom corners of his cockpit, warming up the seat he was on instantly and subsequently the backside seated on it.

Apparently, the fuel had ignited. How much, he couldn't tell. The ground hadn't yet exploded, so that meant the tank underground wasn't penetrated. At least, not just yet. What confused him was how the fuel had ignited. By now the sniper must have realised where he was and was obviously trying to slow him down and kill him, but even a high calibre bullet like that of a rifle couldn't cause fuel to ignite.

He paused momentarily, thinking about the case as he felt the heat slowly fade from under his metal-padded bum. Perhaps the bullet had hit a supply crate on the ground? After all, the same thing had happened to him with much smaller bullets just previously, so it was entirely possible.

Of course, he couldn't see what was on fire at the moment so he had no idea how imminent the threat of mass-flame-and-explosion-catastrophe was. He decided just to get out of there, before either the inevitable fire or the sniper managed to send him back to the grave he'd just left.

As he flew off, he considered the prospect. Surely a rifle slug to the head would be a quick and relatively painless death, would it not?

He shook his head, beating the thought down with a wet handtowel in his mind. He couldn't just abandon his species, especially not through suicide. Oh, but how he wished he could.

_I have to push on, _he thought grimly, _if only to reinstate the dominance and hope of the human race. _

Besides, Alyx would admire him so much more for what he was doing.

If only there was a way to tell her he was alright.

Gordon sighed, shaking his head in remorse. What he could do, he was going to do. And if that meant exacting vengeance on all responsible for his abduction from paradise, then so be it.

He would keep fighting.

To defend those he loved.

_My fellow man._

To destroy those he hated.

_The Combine bastards who forced me to fight._

To avenge those he was too late to save.

_Gordon... Barney... Alyx... and everyone who had to die through the merciless nature of the Combine and their Advisors._

Gordon frowned to himself thinking about that last bit of his thoughts. _The Advisors... the Siberian general said he was following the orders of the Advisors. _

Gordon also recalled his response to that. _Have you considered that the Advisors have interpreted this differently?_

The general had replied the negative.

And then Gordon had blown his head into tiny little bits of blood and white flecks of cranium.

But the words echoed in his mind. _Have you considered that the Advisors have interpreted this differently?_

Was that possible? Had he really believed that to be contingent? When he was pointing the gun in the general's face, had he considered his own words? Was it really possible the Advisors had become deluded, their conviction unchallenged by uncertain subordinates who acquiescently went along with their commands?

Were the Advisors the ones at fault here?

And was the Overwatch merely victims of their own patriotic and undying loyalty to their leaders?

Gordon closed his eyes, sighing again. _Perhaps it was. And one day, perhaps he could ask that question of someone who would know.

* * *

_**Well people, hope that was satisfactory. The action is going to get better, believe me. And for everyone reading who's interested in the Episode 3 machinima, Deremix has sent me a short part of the conversation in Alyx's room in Chapter One. It's pretty damn good, especially the guy doing Gordon. Hopefully part one will be done soon.  
**


	18. Seventeen: Indemnification

**-=Chapter Seventeen: Indemnification=-**

**1:19 PM, White Forest**

The Hunter-Chopper glided in from the north-east, the roar of its blades proclaiming its arrival moments before it arrived above the once Soviet facility of bunkers, underground bomb shelters and missile silos that now served the Romanian Resistance as their epicentre, their nexus of communication and operation, their headquarters.

It was a testament to the power of the human race that it had not yet been destroyed. Despite vicious efforts by a joint coalition of Serbian and Romanian Combine soldiers equal to the size of a military division during four hellish hours of fighting last October, White Forest still stood thanks to the determination of the rebels, the combined power of the two Gordon Freemans and a Fissionist Gman that allowed it to survive the assault until the Croatian bombers had arrived and finished off the alien bastards.

It hadn't been soiled by their presence ever since.

Gordon smiled to himself, thinking about that time. What was strange was that he hadn't even been there, when the Croatians had flown in to save the day. By that time, he'd already been killed by the Advisor. And yet, the Gman had described the events so vividly, so full of... _enthusiasm _that Gordon could practically envision what it must have been like.

And he had seen the countless graves, the innumerable lumps of soil and grass that surrounded the foot of the mountain, spanning along their side of the shallow river bank down in the valley between White Forest and the rest of the Romanian countryside.

Before he'd left, earlier that day, he'd read the sign. It was merely a humble piece of wood, embedded on the opposite side of the river, slightly angled backwards as if leaning over. If one looked at it from a low angle, it would seem somehow menacing, like something one would see outside a madman's castle during a thunderstorm in a movie.

But the message was even more sinister. It was so blunt and direct, yet so intimidating. _These are the graves of those who ascended this mountain with hostile intent... _It was simple: Don't mess with them blokes up there.

Gordon watched as his chopper descended toward the helipad in the middle of White Forest base, the fading white paint, the tough concrete, and the damaged roof-doors of the red corrugated iron hangar. They were so comfortingly familiar, nothing uncertain about them.

This was White Forest, and it was where he be—

_Crack!_

It was the last thing he heard before the split second of blunt force pain that hit his padded shoulder and the darkness that seemed to have been waiting eagerly for this moment. Without even knowing it, blood squirted all over the pilot's seat, the copilots seat and even the copilot's corpse, lying on the floor. The shattered windscreen received tiny splatters of the crimson liquid, slowly dripping down the glittering spiderweb of cracks on it.

And then, there was the crash.

The chopper, now without a pilot but still in the process of landing, became confused. It became indecisive, tentatively trying to figure out what it was supposed to do. Should it land, or should it stay? Finally, after a few moments of irritated consideration, it began to spiral slowly toward the ground, crashing straight into the red roofed hangar and ploughing into the concrete below amidst a tangle of screeching metal and clinking rivets. Shattered glass bounced hollowly on the concrete as the crackle of fuel-fed flames started up.

Somewhere outside of the base's perimeter, in the thick forest of evergreen trees covering the majority of the mountain and the surrounding countryside, a suppressed rifle lowered.

"_Got him._"

The sniper's radio crackled in his ear. "_Yeah, we saw it. Nice spectacle._"

"_Bastard deserves it._"Someone else agreed. "_Breen was right, guessing the Phyx had raised him up._"

"_Doesn't matter now. He's gone."_

"_Sure you got his head?_"

"_Couldn't have missed it._"

"_Good_. _Now we watch._"

"_Amen to that._"

—

People heard the crash.

People had known Freeman was back.

People put two and two together.

Immediately, people were running outside to see what the commotion was. Most of them spotted the hangar in ruins from the rooftops and hills, others saw them out windows. Dr. Magnusson, who'd been in the Command Centre just to the east of the hangar, came out almost straight away, his eyes beholding the sight.

Then he spotted the flames.

Without a second thought, he hurried across the concrete path leading to the hangar entrance, pulling open the door and stumbling down the stairs into the smoky, debris strewn hangar. Freeman's chopper was on fire, the cabin burning down. Somehow, the Gman was already there, pulling Gordon out of the shattered cockpit window. Fortunately, he didn't appear to be burnt, but there was a giant bullet wound in his left shoulder, dripping silent blood onto the dirty concrete.

Noticing him standing there, the Gman looked over at Magnusson, his face relaying no information no emotions. His expression was dead-pan, and his eyes shone in the strange, unmatchable way that only his did: blank.

"I-is he dead?" Magnusson stuttered, trying to walk briskly over to the Gman with an air of confidence but failing through a niggling feeling of panic creeping up from the pit of his stomach. Outside, Magnusson could hear renewed, muffled screams. Apparently others had seen the flames and the damage done to the hangar.

The Gman simply looked over at him, his eyes shining blankly as he knelt down to lie Freeman on the ground...

"No," he replied, standing back up again and analysing the unconscious body on the ground. "He has lost quite a substantial amount of blood; I will need to administer him to the medical wing as soon as possible."

Magnusson nodded, pursing his drying lips together tightly. "See to it, please." He muttered, a hint of anxiety slipping through his professional demeanour.

The Gman nodded in response, looking down at Gordon with a slight shake of his head. "My apologies, Dr. Freeman," he whispered as he picked him back up, "but I cannot allow you to depart from your earthly duties at the present moment."

After picking him up and cradling him in the same way one would cradle a sleeping baby, the Gman calmly walked back toward the metal stairs leading back to the main complex. As he ascended the stairs, Magnusson took one final look at him before he opened the door and slipped through into wherever he was going.

At least, that was what Magnusson assumed.

In actuality, the Gman did not disappear from the raised concrete area leading to the Command Centre. He just stood there for a split second, absorbing all the information he was now presented with lying on the ground before him.

Dr. Kleiner was dead, a pool of blood collecting under his limp head.

It only took a millisecond for the Gman to see the body, analyse that the only explanations were a fatal stroke or a bullet to the head, compare the situation concerning Dr. Freeman and the wound in his shoulder with this unexpected event and resolve that the most logical and probable scenario... was that there was a sniper somewhere on White Forest.

A nanosecond after his mind had figured all this out, a suppressed gunshot sounded. In less than a quarter of a second after the Gman had stepped from the hangar, he had a bullet in his head.

The bullet tore through his skull, the full metal jacket shattering inside it as the lead slug itself spiralled through his brain, lodging somewhere in the right side of his parietal lobe. Blood splattered everywhere, running down the side of the Gman's head and covering his short cropped hair with slick crimson liquid.

And without even pausing to examine the extent of his injuries, the Gman ran for cover in the Command Centre.

He wasn't fired upon again, apparently because the sniper was having his own fair share of conflicting emotions that one would experience after seeing a man take a bullet to the head and brush it off like they'd been flicked. Fear, confusion, surprise even, all of these he was thankful for. After throwing the Command Centre doors open and throwing himself inside, the Gman ran for the medical wing, Gordon bouncing in his arms as he went.

—

"_Wha... huh? How... what? What?_"

"_What's wrong?_"

"_I got Kleiner, but then the Gman came out of the hangar!"_

"_So?_"

"_So I shot him and he didn't die!_"

"_In the head, correct?_"

"_Of course. I had the crosshair in place, waiting for whoever was going to come out."_

"_So what happened?_"

"_I told you, I shot him straight in the head, his blood went all over the place and then a split second later he just walked off!_"

"_He's a Fissionist, dammit, did you forget that!_"

"_I wasn't expecting _him _to come out, geez!_"

"_And so he's inside now?_"

"_He was holding Freeman in his arms._"

"_Dead?_"

"_I assume so._ _I _hope _so."_

"_If he isn't, we're screwed._"

"_Damn straight. They know we're here now, anyway._"

"_Has anyone seen a Phyx yet?"_

"_I got nothing on them."_

"_Me neither."_

"_Shit, people are gonna be looking for us."_

"_Reckon we should leave?_"

"_No, we hide. No more shooting for now. Everyone stay where you are and pray they don't find you."_

"_They know we're here, they'll keep looking until they find us."_

"_If they don't, then they'll assume that we've left."_

"_Ah, of course."_

"_I'm worried about that Fissionist. Knowing their reputation, he won't be messing around, even with that bullet in his head."_

"_What do you think he'll do?"_

"_Find us."_

"_Unless we hide."_

"_Look, we can run and not get found, but the Phyx will be safe then. If we stay, we get a chance at blowing their heads off, but that Gman might find us."_

"_Screw it, let's hide here."_

"_I was intending on doing that in the first place."_

"_I was merely agreeing with your proposition."_

"_Good."_

"_The chopper's hidden, isn't it?"_

"_Unless they've found it in the valley, then yes."_

"_Alright. Dammit, I hope this works."  
"We've got our sidearms. They get too close, we blow 'em all to hell."_

"_If this doesn't work, I'm holding you responsible, Brigadier."_

"_It will work. Trust me, I've been here."_

"_And everyone thought you were dead."_

"_But I wasn't, and that makes all the difference."_

—

"He should be alright," Dr. Taylor affirmed with a warm smile, looking at the expressionless face of the Gman, trying to mask the strange feeling the blood dripping from his skull was giving her. "The bullet doesn't look like it was really large, and I've done much more threatening surgery on this man before."

The Gman nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Taylor."

"My pleasure, Mr. Gman." She replied as he turned to leave, her voice quietening. "Excuse me, Mr. Gman." She asked suddenly.

The Gman turned back, cocking a curious eyebrow. "Yes, Dr. Taylor?"  
"Are you... injured?"

The Gman smiled slightly, running his pale digits through his short, blood-slicked hair. "Worry not, Dr. Taylor. I've had to tolerate much more trauma than this before."

And without another word, he opened the door leading out of the doctor's office, his body obscured as the frosted glass over the door closed, before finally clicking shut in its frame. Dr. Taylor looked back at Freeman's body, lying on the operating table, before glancing back at the door. Nobody.

The man was obviously in a hurry to do something.

—

"Magnusson," the Gman approached the aging scientist, who turned his gaze from the extinguished flames on the steaming wreck of Freeman's chopper to the suited guardian. "I had administered Dr. Freeman to the medical wing. He is under the care of Dr. Simone Taylor."

Magnusson nodded. "Excellent. Did you happen to come across Kleiner, per chance? I was under the impression he wasn't so deaf as to not hear the tremendous crash, especially since half the facility came out to see what had happened."

The Gman's expression didn't change in the slightest, indicating absolutely nothing to Dr. Magnusson. "I found Dr. Kleiner lying just outside the hangar, a pool of blood under his head. Compared to the other evidence, I have concluded he was shot dead by the same sniper that fired upon Dr. Freeman, resulting in this crash."

Magnusson's eyes had widened the instant the Gman had mentioned blood. After forcing himself to listen to the blatant report the Gman had to offer, Magnusson swallowed. "Son of a bitch..."

"I've deduced the approximate location of the sniper," the Gman added, turning the left side of his head toward Magnusson, revealing the giant hole — Magnusson winced, covering his mouth — "from the data I was able to analyse before I was shot, and from the information my brain is now registering from the direction of bullet entry, the size of the lead slug and the shattered full metal jacket, all of which now resides in the parietal lobe of my brain, I believe I can find him."

Magnusson nodded slowly, having gone somewhat pale after the Gman's vivid explanation. "Where is Kleiner's body at the moment?"

"I haven't touched it, thus it is still lying just outside the hangar." The Gman replied.

"Right." Magnusson nodded again, a little faster. Evidently, he'd been unnerved by this sudden turn of events. "Well, please do what you can."

The Gman nodded professionally, turning around and briskly strolling back toward the stairs in a manner that seemed all too calm for the situation. But then again, it was strangely comforting to see him like that, unworried by the recent troubles.

That sniper, on the other hand, had all the world to fear now that the Gman was on his trail.

—

The Swedish Major General lay prostrate on the cold and wet grass, a collection of thick trees pressing against his right side and leafy bushes obscuring him from sight. Fortunately, it wasn't raining, but the sky was overcast and that didn't help with lighting. Optimistically, he could convince himself that was for the better, providing shade and shadow for him from onlookers. He was positioned about a hundred metres from the Command Centre, near the perimeter of the base from the clearing in which Silo 1 resided.

The base had a pretty good layout for snipers: The majority of the buildings were close to a thick forest of towering trees, giving excellent cover. If seen from the top, one would notice that all the buildings were sheltered from the south and west by this wall of trees. To the north was a large clearing that led to the wide dirt track that descended the mountain, and the burial place of Eli Vance, the recently vacated grave of Gordon Freeman and the soon-to-be excavated resting place of Isaac Kleiner. To the east was the wide open area that the Combine had attacked with Striders and Hunters the year before, trying to destroy the Resistance rocket before it launched.

So far, two people had been shot by this trio of senior officers and both times the Major General had been the one to pull the trigger. He was savouring the thought of his impending promotion to Lieutenant General, though he wasn't sure what task he would be assigned to by the Advisors after returning to Geneva. After all, his previous position at Inferno Abyss had been invalid ever since the Gman had come, snapped his fingers and blown it to hell.

It didn't matter. From what he knew, there were only a few men holding the honourable position of Lieutenant General, which was the highest Overwatch rank during peacetime, and it was practically the highest anyway since the decorated rank of five-star general was one appointed to specific individuals, not by way of sequential advancement through the ranking hierarchy. Nosiree, you worked your ass off as a senior officer to get those golden stars.

He'd been on this planet for twenty one years, and he'd been a Major General the longest. At his promotion three years ago, he'd been assigned to the effective Warden of Inferno Abyss and he hadn't left since. Life was tough, but rewarding as hell.

If you survived as long as he did.

Relishing in an internal memoir of his past successes, the Lieutenant General smiled under his mask. How long he had worn it, and how much longer he intending to we—

_Thump._

—

"_What the hell was that?"_

"_The Major General's been incapacitated!"_

"_Shit, pull back! Abort!"_

"_What about the Major General?"_

"_My guess is he's dead, and if not he will be soon enough. Geez, soldier, you know what these people are like! You led the bloody attack on this place last year!"_

"_You're right, sir. My apologies."_

"_Screw it, comrade, just get to the chopper."_

**1:43 PM, White Forest**

_How did he get here? _The Gman pondered in his mind, studying the insignia on the officer's shoulder. A few minutes ago, he and Magnusson had hiked both the body of Dr. Kleiner and this unconscious sniper to the medical wing and a spare storage room respectively. Kleiner's body had gone cold and the blood had started to coagulate around his right ear, so the Gman had quietly wiped his lifeless head clean, trying not to look at the pale eyelids covering the blank glare of a dead man's eyes.

After delivering the body to a horrified Dr. Taylor — who had only just finished removing the shattered jacket and lead slug from Gordon's shoulder — the Gman had then proceeded to lock the unconscious general in a storage room full of flimsy cardboard boxes and tattered crates, all of which were empty of any kind of weapon. They didn't subdue him, though, partially due to the fact that he had no way of escape, partially because the best they had to do so was some rope that a senior officer like him could probably get out of and the only other option of any value was cutting off his hands.

Upon his return to the medical wing, he found Dr. Taylor was in the middle of dry dressing Freeman's wound. The Gman had some knowledge in the surgical removal of bullets and he noted what she was doing was right. She didn't appear to have done any sort of debridement to the wound other than removing the bullet itself and she didn't have anything ready to close the wound off. That was good: bullet wounds were uncommonly a major health issue, they really only needed basic antisepsis and dry dressing of the type Dr. Taylor was now applying.

Of course, she'd had to undertake a much more difficult task the year before, when she'd efficiently removed every last slug and buckshot pellet from this same man's body. None of which, the Gman recalled, had actually been in his left shoulder.

Having finished dressing the wound, the young blonde medic stood back up, sighing as she placed her hands on her hips and examined her work, brushing a lock of light hair from her head before turning to the Gman. "I think I'm done here for the moment," she explained rather quietly, probably because she was thinking about the body of Isaac Kleiner in the room behind her. She looked cautiously at the blood on the Gman's head. "Are you sure you're alright?"

The Gman smiled comfortingly. "Ma'am, I am quite alright. If the bullet proves detrimental to my performance in any way, chances are I will remove the bullet myself."

Dr. Taylor winced, bringing a thin, medical glove clad hand to her mouth and bowing her head slightly. "Please, don't say that."

The Gman nodded understandingly. "Please accept my apologies, I meant you no discomfort."

"No, don't worry," she muttered, waving the hand she'd had over her mouth dismissively, "sorry, it's just..." she shook her head, blinking softly, "never mind."

The Gman nodded again. "I believe I understand how you feel, Dr. Taylor. While I may not show it, I feel no different to you at this loss."

She looked up at him, as if only a little surprised at his deduction of how she was feeling. "Poor Dr. Kleiner..." she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. "Freeman isn't going to be happy about this, is he?" she laughed weakly, sniffing a moment later and bringing her hand up to her bespectacled eyes.

The Gman smiled thinly. "I have apprehended the perpetrator of both these attacks. Any consequential feelings of grief, sorrow and anger that Freeman may experience at hearing this news, he will be able to take out on the man who did it."  
"What, you mean kill him?" Dr. Taylor asked suddenly and quickly, her voice wavering. "Dr. Freeman wouldn't do anything like that to an unarmed soldier, I mean he's not like that—"

"Dr. Taylor, I was suggesting no such thing," the Gman affirmed comfortingly. "Besides, if I wanted him dead, I would have done so myself. We need this officer, Dr. Taylor, for information purposes. We need to interrogate him."

"What for?" Dr. Taylor asked quietly.

"This man bears the insignia of a Swedish Major General," the Gman explained, "and I am certain I saw a man wearing identical uniform to him during my brief time at Inferno Abyss a few days ago. This man came from Sweden, and the Fissionists tracked his helicopter to Rostock. Judging by his rank, I would say he was a conspirator to the nuking, or an accomplice at the very least. Since Freeman needs all the information he can get on the incident, I decided it would be optimal that we take this soldier alive and use whatever knowledge he has."

Dr. Taylor nodded slowly, breathing somewhat heavier than usual. "OK," she nodded again, a little faster. "Sorry, I overreacted."

The Gman raised an empathetic hand. "No need to apologise, Dr. Taylor."

Offering the smallest of smiles, Dr. Taylor turned her head again to look back at the room where Dr. Kleiner's body now lay. "Dr. Kleiner will be missed..." she whispered to herself.

"The passing of an integral component of the Resistance such as this will undoubtedly present heavy ramifications, but I believe such contingencies may be used to our advantage — to be used as motivation for justice." The Gman answered calmly.

Dr. Taylor looked back at him. "Do you have a speech ready for every situation?" she asked him, her smile widening.

The Gman chuckled softly to himself. "I merely offer optimistic encouragement applicable to whatever state of affairs may exist, based off my own experiences."

Cocking her head, Dr. Taylor raised an eyebrow curiously. "Your own experiences? Do tell."

The Gman sighed, his eyes defocusing like those of a war veteran remembering the horrors of the past. "I have witnessed many things during the time I have spent as a Member of the Fissionist Faction," he announced finally, "many of which once pained me. I have since learned that pain is merely a point of inception from which one can derive focus on an objective. Now I do not shun pain as a hindrance, rather I accept it for what it is, I embrace what it has to offer me."

Dr. Taylor gazed at the Gman in amazement. "You really are something else, aren't you?"

"From a human perspective, that is entirely the case." The Gman agreed, smiling thinly.

Smiling again, Dr. Taylor turned and walked toward her office. "If you'd like to stay until Freeman regains consciousness, you're quite welcome to." She paused momentarily, stopping just outside her office door, sighing almost silently. "I've got to attend to Dr. Kleiner's body."

Nodding in affirmation from behind, the Gman walked over to a collection of folding chairs placed against the wall. "Thank you."

"Welcome," Dr. Taylor replied, her office door creaking quietly as she opened it, the door clicking in its frame a moment after she had stepped through.

The room was silent.

Relaxing in his seat, the Gman smiled and closed his eyes. _Such hardships the human race must endure, _he thought to himself. _How often they cause me sorrow. _

His eyes still shut, he clasped his pianist-esque hands together in his lap. _And how wonderful it is to see them get back on their feet, every single time.

* * *

_

**Sorry about the long wait, but unfortunately this is going to become more common now that the plot is really thickening. I had more to say here but the internet was retarded and decided to delete it, so I'm just going to ask the universe where Valve was during EA's press conference at E3 (EA publish Valve games).**

**Anyway, next chapter should be a little sooner (I bought a new game for the first time in like half a year and was busy playing that too... Medal of Honor 10th Anniversary edition. Great deal for $25 Aussie buckaroos, especially since I'm a sucker for game and movie soundtracks) and it will have Freeman interrogating the Swedish general plus some other stuff.  
**


	19. Eighteen: Revolution

**-=Chapter Eighteen: Revolution=-**

**White Forest, 4:23 PM**

He slowly regained sensory perception, his vision blurred and his ears focusing on ambiance rather than distinct, individual sounds. Feelings returned, a strange emptiness in his left shoulder felt by his nerves and received by his waking brain. After a moment of consciousness, everything returned to normal.

Sounds focused.

Feeling intensified, every minute detail of neural physical sensation now rocketing through his body and his head.

Thoughts processed, organising themselves into a coherent analysis of what it knew.

_I was hit, and evidently I fell unconscious._

That much was certain. His vision was blurry, but he couldn't feel the light weight of his glasses on his face so that explained it. From what he could make out, he was looking up at the roof of a white room. It had a clean, sanitary appearance. He could feel thin, paper-like sheets under his gloved hands, on top of a thick cushion-like bench.

_I'm in the medical wing of White Forest. _

He didn't know how he'd gotten there, but from what he could piece together he had been knocked unconscious, sustained some form of injury and was now recovering in the medical wing.

Suddenly, his mind connected the dots he was experiencing: the emptiness in his shoulder was related to his injuries. He must have been shot, and had the bullet removed surgically.

He vaguely remembered a familiar burning sensation in his arm, diluted in strength by his suit but still extremely painful. Bullets felt like someone sticking a red-hot poker inside your body, which made sense since the ignited gunpowder would undoubtedly make the copper jacket and lead slug pretty damn hot.

As his mind considered this, a blurred mass appeared to his right. Squinting at the figure, his mind figured out that it was Dr. Simone Taylor. He could make out the rims of her relatively small glasses — compared to his gigantic framed ones — and her tied back blonde hair, giving her a demeanour of professionalism she deserved as a doctor.

Gordon smiled, both at her presence and at the thought of him in comparison. He was more like some sort of strange warmonger than a scientist now, with nowhere near the level of sophisticated appearance Dr. Taylor was displaying.

She was quite pretty, but Gordon didn't feel any attraction to her other than as a friend and comrade against the Combine. Besides, Alyx still waited for him beyond the grave.

Gordon could just make out her smiling back. "How are you feeling, Dr. Freeman?"

Allowing himself a quiet chuckle, Gordon stretched his arms tiredly. "Yeah, I'm alright. So, what'd I miss? And how long have I been out?"

Dr. Taylor's expression barely flickered. Perhaps with his glasses Gordon might've noticed, but as things were he missed the subtle moment of sadness in her eyes. "You've been unconscious for about three hours," she explained, her tone keeping steady and calm, inconspicuous, "and... a few things have happened while you've been sleeping."

Gordon didn't need his glasses to pick up that something was wrong this time. Suddenly, it wasn't just the hole in his shoulder that felt empty. "Yes?"

Dr. Taylor paused. "Here," she passed him his glasses, which he accepted voluntarily, "why don't you sit up and I'll tell you?"

"If you desire," the Gman added, standing up from his seat beside the operating table as Gordon sat up, "I can assist in your explanation."

Gordon looked over at the Gman, smiling, before he noticed the blood on his head. "Oh, shit, what happened to you?"

The Gman smiled comfortingly. "Please relax, Dr. Freeman. There are much more... _pressing _matters at hand than my wellbeing — which, I would like to assert, is in no critical condition."

Gordon slowly looked back at Dr. Taylor. "OK, go ahead."

Dr. Taylor nodded slowly, smiling uncertainly. It was obvious she no longer felt entirely secure. She took a deep breath, lowering her head slightly. "You and the Gman... weren't the only ones to be shot today."

Gordon didn't respond to this statement in any way. No change of expression, not vocal reply, nothing. But in his mind, he simply threw his hands into the air. _Who else can be taken from me? _He whispered silently, asking the infinite reaches of the universe for an answer he knew would never come.

So instead, he waited to hear Dr. Taylor answer it for him.

—

The explanation took less than a minute. After Dr. Taylor stopped talking and the medical wing returned into its usual silence, the Gman began to talk to the silent hero of the Resistance.

"We have the perpetrator in captivity," he explained softly. "I was compensating for the possibility of you necessitating interrogation."

Gordon sat still on the operating table, his head bowed and his gloved hands clasped. "Where is he?" he finally whispered, his voice ominously stable.

The Gman ignored any bad omens his tone had subliminally relayed. "The storage room in the living quarters."

"Right." Gordon calmly slid off the operating table and headed for the door. As he reached for the handle, he paused. "Dr. Taylor?"

"Yes?" she answered quickly, as if she was partially shocked at his actions.

"Thank you."

And with that, he opened the frosted glass door and left.

Dr. Taylor turned to the Gman, who was smiling thinly at where Freeman had just been. She frowned slightly, turning completely to face the suited enigma standing before her. "What is so amusing, Mr. Gman?" she asked, her tone coated with a thin layer of authority.

The Gman glanced over at her casually. "Dr. Freeman acted as I had suspected. He truly is the perfect choice for humanity's salvation."

"How can you know that?" she asked, her voice raising a little.

A tiny laugh escaped the Gman's pale lips. "He is a force of nature. I have assisted augmenting his inherent nature as a human being to create what he is. Mankind has an unrivalled willpower... and through my trials he has become the one destined to save the human race."

"What do you mean, you created him?"

"I said no such powerful thing," the Gman objected. "Human nature has made Dr. Freeman into the saviour. I merely assisted by tempering it, strengthening it through the scenarios I have orchestrated." He paused. "I believe his resurrection was enough to get him on the final journey to the climax of his power."

"Mr. Gman," Dr. Taylor whispered nervously, "you speak like Dr. Freeman is some sort of synthetic creature made for this purpose."

The Gman shook his head. "This is not the case. Freeman is like any other human being on this planet... the only exception is that he has a guardian of the universe helping him realise his true potential."

—

He'd been awake a little while, a short enough time that he could estimate how long he had been conscious even without any light. He was confused that there wasn't anything restraining him, it was like the people just decided to leave him in an empty room. After trying the door in an attempt he had expected to be completely fruitless, he proceeded to try and break the door open. No luck there, so he instead tried to fiddle with the lock in a way he hoped would work despite his lack of lockpicking talents. He'd never needed to learn to pick locks — or even pick them at all — because if the Combine had ever needed to get into a place they'd just destroy whatever obstruction was in their way.

After what he guessed had been twenty or so minutes of annoyance at what he saw as little more than an inconvenience, the door opened. He was sitting on some crates near the back of the room at the time so he made no attempt to escape. Which was good, because when the weak buzzing fluorescent light in the roof flickered on he saw that the someone who had come in was holding a 9 millimetre.

He didn't focus on that fact, though, because the man holding the pistol was none other than the man he had been certain he'd killed however long ago it had been.

Freeman closed the door, unable to lock it from this side, and calmly turned around to face the general. "Why'd you do it?"

The general merely sat on the crates, looking at Gordon in confusion. Not because he didn't understand the question, but because the man talking was supposed to be dead. Not for the first time, mind you.

Gordon sighed, "OK, you know what, fuck it."

_Bang._

The bullet flew straight toward the general, slamming right into the front of his right shoulder. His collar bone shattered, flesh and muscle ripped and intertwined with the thick fabric of his combat fatigues. Yelling out in pain, the general pressed his other hand against the bleeding wound, breathing deeply and hoarsely as Gordon advanced.

"I'm going to ask again." He whispered, standing a metre away from the injured officer. "Why did you do it?"

The general looked away from his injury and up at his interrogator in disgust. Even though his emotions were hidden, his rage was emanating from his body.

Gordon closed his eyes, breathing deeply and evenly. "I would like to approach this situation professionally, if you don't mind." He walked over to a nearby crate, pulling it over to where he was standing and sitting himself down on it, just a metre from the general's reach. "I will present my argument, and you will try and justify your actions."

The general maintained his silence.

"General, please try to be cooperative."

"Cooperative?" the general snarled. "Oh, how delightful. You expect cooperation from a man you have just shot?"

Gordon smiled. "I see no reason for you to complain, general. I woke up ten minutes ago and I had to hear that I had been shot, my friend had been shot and the last colleague and mentor from my past life was killed by you. Right now I am in a position to kill you. I have the power to torture you, I have a crowbar with which to do the most violent job. I could vivisect you with it. I could strip away every little layer of your frail Combine body until you died."

The general sat in silence. Gordon could tell his words were having effect. "But I won't. Despite all you have done to me, despite everything you have caused me to go through, I won't do something like that. Because I have moral boundaries."

Continuing to sit in silence, the general made no rebuttal. Perhaps he had none to give.

"So you see, general," Gordon smiled genuinely, "I have so many reasons to kill you, but I won't. Besides, I need some information from you."

"And that's it, yes?" the general asked shakily. "Interrogate me for what I know, then kill me?"

Gordon leaned back on his crate, playing with the pistol in his hands. "I believe you are acquainted with a general from Siberia, yes?"

The general offered nothing, so Gordon continued, "well, about six hours ago he stopped in Belarus to refuel. I arrived about ten minutes after him, and I proceeded to find him and blow his brains out."

Again, the general sat in silence. Was it because he was remorseful for this loss, or because he feared his own demise? Gordon didn't know, and he didn't care. "But I gave him the chance to talk. I offered him a way to go, an alternative to death."

"But he did not talk."

"No, and so he died."

"What happens if I talk?"

"We let you go."

"You wouldn't even consider it." The general snorted.

"Do I sound like I'm lying to you?" Gordon whispered.

Th general didn't respond to that. Gordon sat up straight again, sighing. "I would like to ask you a question: Why are you trying to kill us? Is it because you are superior to us? Is it just because we exist?"

"I follow the orders of the Advisors," the general muttered.

"And why are they trying to kill us?"

"Because you have disrupted the peace we have enforced on your planet."

Gordon stood up suddenly. "Really? Well, guess what, mate? That's what your Siberian friend told me before he died."

"It's the truth, I swear it."

"Please show me whatever evidence you have to prove that."

"I told you, I am subordinate to the Advisors. They give me my orders and their orders are to reinstate the Combine order on this planet."

"So basically you're fighting our insurrection?"

"Exactly!"

"So that you can, what, enslave us again?"

The general looked at Gordon curiously. "Whatever do you mean?"

"What the hell do you think I mean?" Gordon demanded. "You massacre two thirds of the population, you force us into gigantic urban slums while you watch us from your advanced towers of metal and electricity and you feed us with what could be the processed remains of our brothers! What sort of conditions are those for a peaceful society? Do you have any reason to wonder why we rose up against you?"

"You humans are so accustomed to your welfare." The general snapped back. "Do you have any idea what it is like for us? How are you judging us when you had no idea we even existed, how can you know the social standing of our society?"

"Because a nation stricken by the poverty and harsh conditions that we have to suffer under your hand wouldn't be able to build fucking skyscrapers whose peak goes above the clouds!" Gordon yelled.

The general retreated slowly, his shoulders slumping. Gordon stood over him, his eyes burning with rage, his hands shaking in fury. "Dammit, why did you come here?" Gordon yelled again. "What did we do to you? Why can't you just leave us alone?"

Looking up at him again, the general shook his head slightly. "Because the Universal Union is the future. We strive to make our namesake a reality. One banner under which there will be infinite peace and prosperity."

"If that's the truth, then why have you thrown our species into a state of poverty?" Gordon asked quietly, sitting back down.

"Because we cannot do these things instantly," the general replied softly. "We have done this to all civilisations we have conquered, it is our procedure."

"Can you explain it to me?"

The general nodded. "If you wish."

—

Twenty minutes later, Gordon returned to the medical wing. Dr. Taylor was still there, but the Gman appeared to have left. Dr. Taylor spotted Gordon walk in, and she immediately straightened up. "Dr. Freeman?"

"Yeah?" he asked, looking around the bright white room.

"Are you OK?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine." Gordon affirmed, smiling at her. "I just need to talk to the Gman."

"What's wrong?"

"I think he might've made some sort of... _mistake._"

**Palace of Nations, Geneva, 4:55 PM**

The French general strode into the conference room, looking down at his feet. Underneath his boots was a gigantic cylindrical tunnel leading down, Advisor pods lining the dark utilitarian grey walls. It descended into the darkness, going down into a seemingly bottomless pit.

Taking up his position in the centre of the room, a communication pod slowly descended from the low roof. The thin clear dome was designed so that one could freely communicate with the Advisors down below as if they were in earshot. More than twelve hours ago, the four generals from Rostock had reported to the Advisors in this exact manner.

The French general, the only soldier in that Combine-ruled country bearing the decorated five stars of the highest ranking general in the Overwatch, stood straight inside the pod.

The Advisors began. _We welcome you to this country, Soldier 46859, _they greeted him telepathically. _We received word from your convoy that you had matters to discuss with us concerning the recent events in the city of Rostock. If you would please begin, we would be appreciative. _

The general did not nod. "Advisors, allow me to ask you a question: For what reason did you deem it necessary to have a nuclear device detonated within the city of Rostock?"

_According to our information, Wallace Breen covered this topic and the logic upon which we supported it in his most recent Breencast. Surely you heard this broadcast, otherwise you would not be standing in this building here and now._

"Indeed, I heard Wallace Breen's broadcast," the French general agreed coolly, "and I heard him discuss that he had confidence in your judgement."

_Are you implying the possibility that you yourself do not have faith in our decisions?_

The French general was unperturbed. "I am most certainly suggesting such a thing. I would like to request once more that you explain your reasoning to me."

The Advisors were silent for a moment, before they continued. _We orchestrated the detonation of the Siberian nuclear warhead for the purpose of destroying the Resistance at its core. By taking Vance Subprime captive and allowing the Resistance to discover her location, we were able to bait Anticitizen One to Rostock. _

"So you are saying that the reason behind this detonation was to destroy Anticitizen One?"

_Anticitizen One was the epicentre of the Resistance. He was the foundation of their morale, and now that he is dead the global resistance will quickly fall in his wake._

"But so far, it hasn't."

_It appears not. However, the situation may not have been publicised entirely yet._

"Are the Breencasts not designed to inform the population of current affairs, like the death of Anticitizen One?"

_The effects are not instantaneous, Soldier 46859. Surely you are understanding of this matter?_

"It has been nearly twenty four hours since the nuking of Rostock," the French general continued. "Would not the human race have given up by now?"

_Still you continue to press our decision?_

"Of course I do, you have given me no motivation to cease my offensive!"

_Insubordination is unacceptable, Soldier 46859. Among other things you appear not to grasp, that should be evident enough._

"I tell you one thing that has become clear to me," the general replied calmly. "That you are unfit to rule."

_Such irrational conclusions are the conception of a negatively radical mind. Your decision is the product of haste and bias._

"Really? From my deciphering of your explanation, I have concluded you intended to destroy Anticitizen One at the cost of hundreds of Overwatch soldiers.

_The Overwatch is no small congregation, Soldier 46859. A few hundred lives are adequate sacrifice for the advancement of the Universal Union on Earth._

"Ah, but now I reach the crux of my rebuttal," the general announced. "You have accomplished nothing. The human race has not lost courage, perhaps this act was incentive to increase their determination. I believe that the nuking of Rostock was in actuality a product of haste and bias on _your_ part, Advisors."

_This insubordination will not go unpunished, Soldier 46859. We will see to your termination immediately after we have concluded._

"Admit that you have lost sight of our goals, Advisors!" the general yelled. "You have become blind by Anticitizen One and his success! You have forgotten we are not at war with the human race!"

_The human race, our dear general, is a rebellious child, fighting its parents despite their constant attempts to assist it. They resolutely defy our attempts to help them._

"We must _love _the human race regardless, like true parents!" the general roared. "You have spent too long on this planet, Advisors! The Prime Advisors would be disgusted at your gross blitheness!"

_The human race murdered the Prime Advisors, general! Their insurrection must be punished, like true parents would to a disobedient child!_

"But consider, we have never had the chance to associate ourselves with mankind! They do not understand us and they have alienated us for it!"

_When have we ever had the chance to appeal to the human race and explain our purpose?_

"When we first arrived, of course!"

_The human race has despised us ever since we arrived. They loathe our existence because they are not accepting of change._

"That is because they do not understand us or our purpose!" the general insisted. "If we could somehow create peace between us..."

_That opportunity has passed, Soldier 46859, _the Advisors concluded. _It passed the moment Anticitizen One destroyed Nova Prospekt and ignited the Uprising. The human race will not listen to any speak of peace now._

"How do you know that for certain?"

_Look at their history. The only way they accept defeat is when everyone in power is dead. Consider their Second World War. The National Socialists only surrendered when their leader was dead. The war ended when the United States destroyed two Japanese cities with their early atomic bombs. These people can only accept peace once there is no one left to fight, or the enemy has an insurmountable advantage._

The French general bowed his head, looking down into the dark conference room below him. "If you cannot accept my proposition of peace, then I must take action."

_You have no authority, Soldier 46859. Do not forget your crimes of insubordination against us. We will have you terminated immediately after this conference._

The French general did not make any reply.

At least, the Advisors did not see him make one. Under his mask, a small smile creased his pale lips.

"Very well," the French general sighed. "If you know so much about the history of the human race, surely you are aware of a certain term. I believe it is known as a... _coup __d'état._"

The Advisors took a split second to realise what the general was implying. _Initiate termination procedure! _They screamed simultaneously.

Immediately, a door opened in the wall facing the French general, and six white Overwatch Elites marched quickly out, taking up their positions outside the door, three on both the left and right sides.

A moment later the double doors behind the French general, the ones that lead to the outside of the Palace of Nations, two lines of French Overwatch soldiers stormed inside, opening fire on the six Elites. Their bodies were shredded instantly, blood and thin pale flesh splattering the gunmetal grey Combine metal walls behind them. What little internal organs remained in these converted bodies spilled onto the floor, along with an insipid colourless acid that diluted the spilled blood.

The French soldiers proceeded to remove the communication pod surrounding their leader, who turned to his soldiers and nodded curtly. "People, today will be remembered as the day the Combine began the revolution to true cultivation of planet Earth by the Universal Union."

He looked over at the closest group of soldiers. "I want you to find Dr. Wallace Breen. This is what he has been waiting for these past two decades. The world which we now strive to create is the world that he was promised by the Advisors all those years ago, when he took up office as our Administrator. We made a promise, and today he will see that we intend to keep that promise."

* * *

**And that, people, is just the tip of the crazy iceberg. I'm pretty sure no-one was expecting me to do that. What I'm striving to do as an author is challenge people's thoughts. I want you to seriously ask yourself, 'are the Combine evil, and if not then what made me think they were?' I'm trying to illustrate an alternative, an extremely deviant alternative to what I'm sure Valve has in mind for this kick ass series.**

**Sure, I'm not the best writer ever. But I'm only fourteen, and I hope that by the time I'm twenty or whatever, I'll be able to write something really good that challenges people like I hope this is. I hope this is satisfactory instead of the generous action in Episode 3, but I stand by my promise that the action will be much crazier when it comes. Quality over quantity, in this case.**

**I'd really like to hear what people think about the twists the plot has. I'm just hoping it'll all work out in the end, especially since I've only touched upon the doppelganger Gman and his plans. **

**Anyway, I'd like to leave with a small note: HOLY CRAP I GUESSED RIGHT PORTAL 2 ON PS3 BLARGEBARBEHK!1!  
**


	20. Nineteen: The First Epiphany

**-=Chapter Nineteen: The First Epiphany=-**

**Palace of Nations, 5:04 PM**

The soldiers burst into the luxurious office, startling the oblivious Dr. Breen sitting at his mahogany desk. "Wh-what is the meaning of this?"

Not offering a reply, one of the soldiers started speaking into his radio. "We've found him, sir. I don't think he knew we were here."

"What's going on?" Dr. Breen demanded again, his eyes slowly revealing the fear that was slithering through his mind.

The apparent leader of the squad turned to Dr. Breen, holstering his rifle. "Sir, this is the day you've been waiting for ever since the Advisors appointed you."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Today, we overthrow the Advisors."

"But..." Dr. Breen stuttered. "The Advisors are the entire reason I was appointed! I have no reason to want their capitulation."

"But they promised you they would help the human race," the soldier insisted. "Can't you see all they've done so far is harm it?"

"They told me they would be brutal," Dr. Breen added, "they told me it was necessary to the conformation of the human race to the Universal Union. They said they wouldn't tolerate injustice, and they haven't."

"But ever since the uprising, what have they done to help?"

"Men, I'm certain you've been doing everything you can to help us, even if my species are ignorant of this matter."

"It's not about the human race misunderstanding, sir! It's about the Advisors losing sight of their promise to you!"

"So what are you doing to help me?" Dr. Breen asked quietly.

"We're gonna find a way to end this insurrection... but in a way the human race can understand. Our leader understands now that we think differently to the human race, and therefore we have to change the way we go about our purpose of uniting the universe."

"How do you propose you do that?" Dr. Breen inquired, standing up slowly. It was obvious that he was interested now.

"We're going to try and sign a treaty with the human Resistance."

Dr. Breen nodded slowly. "Do you think it'll work?"

"We believe so, sir. But we expect there will be a considerable amount of bloodshed, particularly from the Combine soldiers who still remain loyal to the Advisors and our orthodox procedure of universal unity: brutal suppression. Those who cannot accept change will have to be removed."

"And how many do you estimate will continue to follow these orthodox ways?"

"Worst case scenario: half the Transhuman Arm of the Global Overwatch."

"That's a hell of a lot of soldiers."

"If it means we can end this uprising peacefully, our leader believes it is worth it."

"This... leader," Dr. Breen began. "He's caught my interest now. When can I meet with him?"

The soldier smiled. "I was talking to him just before, sir. He should be here in a few minutes."

**White Forest, 5:13 PM**

Magnusson walked into the Command Centre, his eyes glistening in sheer anger at the ridiculous proposal Freeman had made a few minutes ago. There he was, sitting with their prisoner, unrestrained and engaging in what appeared to be _casual conversation_ of all things!

The Gman was standing beside the two, his face displaying the familiar nothing Magnusson had become accustomed to expect from him. Undoubtedly inside that head of his a billion things were being consciously processed and organized, perhaps related to the two unlikely people talking to each other before him, or maybe it was entirely unconnected to the matter at hand.

A matter that he was about to address.

"Right, I'm here. Now can you please explain to me what is happening?" Magnusson demanded, looking at the Combine general, "specifically relating to why our prisoner is not incarcerated!"

Gordon stood up, clearing his throat. "I already told you what this was about."

"I seem to recall you forgetting to confirm your sanity also." Magnusson snapped back snidely.

"In this case, I admit that I am also confused, Dr. Freeman," the Gman agreed. "Surely this man is our enemy?"

Gordon looked at the Gman. "OK then, to start off I'd like to ask you a question: Why are the Combine our enemies?"

"Oh, dear lord, he's been brainwashed..." Magnusson muttered, in such a way that it was difficult to discern whether he was being sarcastic or not.

The Gman, being the ridiculously calm and patient being that he was, answered Gordon's question seriously. "The Combine Empire can be analogised to a malignant cancer, in the sense that it grows at a startling rate, devours all opposition it comes across and causes negative consequences to those affected by it."

The Swedish general made no reaction to this answer, he merely sat and listened. Perhaps because the man who had blown up his home for the past few years was standing right behind him.

"So what are these 'negative consequences'?" Gordon inquired.

"The Combine are textbook in their approach to invasion," the Gman continued, "their _modus operandi_ is to invade with a force vast enough to quell any initial resistance they may be met with and set up their own governing body as soon as physically and politically possible. After that, it is merely a long struggle to keep the inhabitants suppressed and prevent insurrection."

"And so those are the negative consequences," Gordon nodded. "Right. So how are we any different from them?"

The Gman frowned. "Whatever do you mean?"

"We do the exact same thing!"

"Well, yes, but..." the Gman paused. "Hmm. I can see the logic you have behind your ostensibly irrational decision now."

"Thank you," Gordon smiled.

"But that does not mean I accept your allegations," the Gman continued. "Regardless of their similarities to the human race, they are malevolent in their motivation and intent."

"Why do you say that?" the Swedish general asked calmly, looking up at the Gman. "What evidence do you have to support such a claim?"

The Gman looked down at him. "Obviously the fact that you suppress the welfare of the species you take control of to the absolute minimum for subsistence. Instead of leaving them to live identically to the way they were before the capitulation of their governments, you force them into urban centres such as City 17 that barely sustain their daily requirements."

"Fissionist, you didn't give any evidence as to why we are malevolent in that explanation." The Swedish general replied coolly.

The Gman frowned. "I most certainly did. What other reason would a species reduce the wellbeing of another than malicious intent?"

"You yourself gave an alternative, Gman." Gordon reminded him. "You said that after they have gained political control of the planet, it is just a struggle to suppress insurrection. Perhaps they did all this to us to be _strategic_."

"Strategising does not exempt malevolence."

"So what evidence do you have that we were doing all this because we are evil?" the Swedish general asked again.

The Gman paused. "Hmm. Perhaps you did not suppress their wellbeing out of malicious motivation, but surely you cannot claim the reasonless executions you partook in each day were derived from a strategic basis."

Gordon laughed. "You do realise I also asked him these exact questions, don't you?"

"And you were satisfied with his answer?" the Gman inquired incredulously, raising a curious eyebrow. Freeman was no idiot and consequently it would be difficult to con him into believing a lie. Was this general telling the truth?

"Yes, I was."

"Pray tell, what was it?"

"They were done for a reason."

"Which would be...?"

"The Combine are harsh, Gman, you know that. The general explicitly told me that nobody in the Overwatch can tolerate any sort of insubordination. Even still, the minor offences were only punished by beatings. I asked him about the people I saw being killed on my way through the Resistance railway, and he asked me what they were doing down there in the first place."

The Gman smiled. Intelligent response.

His smile was enough for Gordon to continue, "the Combine aren't evil, Gman. They're just obsessive with their enforcement of justice."

"If that is the case, why are you now befriending him, and more importantly vice versa?"

"Because, Gman," Gordon answered, "we both misunderstood each other."

"How so?"

"I thought the Combine were either trying to destroy or enslave us. The general here thought we knew their true intentions and we were opposed to them. Now I understand what he and the Combine are trying to do, and he understands that nobody knew that and that was why we were fighting them."

"And what are they trying to do?"

"Isn't it obvious from their name?" Gordon asked in genuine surprise, "universal union!"

"Unification of all the nations of the universe?" the Gman asked somewhat disbelievingly.

"Exactly."

"And they have decided the best way to go about that is to invade and massacre the inhabitants of the universe?"

The Swedish general laughed, quite literally laughed at the Gman. "Fissionist, please tell me you are being ignorant intentionally?"  
"I am doing no such thing." The Gman answered strongly. "I demand you explain to me what you are suggesting."

"What other options did we have to unify the universe under our banner?"

"Call a senate to announce your proposal, obviously!"

"And how many times has that worked?"

"Nobody has ever tried it before, according to my knowledge."

"Do you know why not?" the general asked. "Because everyone, including the Prime Advisors, knew announcing such a thing would be fruitless. People would object, people would defy our ideas. People will fight about anything, especially the thought of universal union. So we decided the only way to unite the universe was to take action forcibly and take over every single nation ourselves and be relentless concerning insurrection and crime."

"The Combine has been invading planets for centuries," the Gman argued. "Surely you were not present when they began this endeavour?"

"Of course not. But it is impossible not to know about our goals. Everything in our society reminds us that we have made an oath to unite the universe through whatever means necessary. We have annual festivals celebrating what the Prime Advisors set out to do all those centuries ago."

"So you strive to attain a universal union... through universal conquest?"  
"_Harmony through subjugation._" The general added. "I remember being told those exact words twenty one years ago, on our Capital just before we left for this planet."

"But would not this universal union fall apart? After all, surely other nations feel contempt for your invasion of their planets?"

The general clasped his hands together. "Fissionist, the reason Dr. Freeman called you here today is because I explained what our plan is and how we go about it."

"And?"

"He began the uprising before we could complete our procedure."

"What is that procedure?"

The general leaned back in his chair. "After conquering a planet, we suppress the inhabitants until all injustice and crime is removed. After that has been achieved, we _combine _with them."

"How do you do that?"

"We transpose our way of life, our culture, our technology, into their community. After we have insinuated our government and quenched all opposition, we introduce the benefits. Apart from your faction, Fissionists, we are the most advanced race in the universe. After however long it takes to subdue a nation, we welcome them into the Universal Union and inaugurate their nation as a part of our society."

The general looked around at the three people standing in the room. "Am I correct," he began once more, "that the five Phyx I required were sent to this planet from Trysik are present at this base?"

"You are indeed," Gordon nodded. "Why?"

The general chuckled. "Because we have completed the process I just described to you on their planet. Trysik is a fully-operational society under the banner of the Universal Union. Ask them if I speak the truth."

Gordon looked over at Magnusson and nodded. "Call them here."

Magnusson, usually the most pompous and objective of the people at White Forest, nodded slowly. "Alright, Freeman, but I'm still not entirely sure of all this."

"You will be," Gordon replied as Magnusson left.

—

"It is as the Combine scum says," the Phyx sneered simultaneously. "They have imposed their society on our nation."

The general sighed. "See this hostility? This is what the human Resistance has been like to us this past year."  
"But now you know we're not really like that." Gordon reminded him.

"Because you have the intellectual capacity to understand our goals," the general muttered.

The Phyx's eyes thinned in unison, their dull black eyes flashing in suppressed anger. "Such confident words for one so decorated in the hierarchy of slime that is your military, _general_." They hissed.

"Can we possibly settle for a civilised discussion?" the Gman interrupted, raising his hands defensively. "I understand you are not on the best of terms, but can you put these evidently petty differences behind you?"

The Phyx leaned backwards, closing their eyes. "The general may not have caused us any personal grief, but he is an accomplice to the disgusting plan to unite the universe under their banner."

"You see what I mean?" the general demanded, looking at Gordon and the Gman. "_This _is why proposing universal union was out of the question! There will always be people who refuse to accept our ideas for unity!"

"Perhaps you are going about it the wrong way?" the Gman suggested.

"Fissionist, we are what you could call a pacifistically-militant nation. We despise violence and conflict while we understand it is the only definite way to attain true peace."

"The whole concept is a farce!" the Phyx snarled. "Pacifism through violence? What sort of contradictory drivel is this?"

The Gman listened to the vivid argument, considering everything they were saying. _Violence and conflict are the only definite way to attain true peace... that is incorrect. There is another way... no matter how much I abhor it, that is undeniable._

"General, there is another way to attain true peace."

"Really?" the general looked up at the Gman. "What is it?"

The Gman paused. "Universal euthanasia."

"What?" the general demanded. "What kind of craziness is that?"

"Technically speaking, if you were to painlessly destroy every single species in the universe other than yourself... you could have true peace."

_Or defence of the universe... now I understand the logic behind my doppelganger's proposition. That doesn't mean it is morally justified._

"Enough." The Gman decided finally. "Phyx, please accept my apologies. I understand the logic behind the general's goals... but I cannot say I agree with the moral ramifications."

"What does that mean?" the Phyx asked.

"It means that, logically and statistically, the theory of universal union is possible. However, that does not mean it is _right _to force them to subject to the banner of a single nation."

The general looked up at him. "Are you saying everything the Combine Empire is striving for is... _morally_ wrong?"

"Yes."

"From whose perspective, Fissionist?"

The Gman fell silent. The general was right, from whose doctrine of morality was he judging them?

_What is immorality...?_

_Such is founded on the principles of right and wrong, of which there is no universal standard!_

His doppelganger was right. Morality was relative, indefinite, differing between the societies of the universe.

"Everyone is right." The Gman finally spoke up, looking at everyone in the room. "And everyone is wrong. What is certain is that everything is relative based on perspective. The Combine believe in an authoritarian society. The nations of Earth believed in liberal societies. Both are right and both are wrong in each other's eyes."

"So what are you saying?" Gordon asked quietly.

"That universal union, or at least in the form you describe, general... is impossible."

"But you just said...!" the general insisted.

"I know what I just said." The Gman interrupted calmly. "But I was wrong. There is no way to unite each and every individual under one ideology, whether it be social, political or whatever. The only way to accomplish true universal union is through mental conditioning."

Everyone was silent. "So everything my people are striving for... is in vain?" the general whispered.

"The way I see it, it appears so." The Gman nodded.

Silence.

"If you will not be needing us, we will be leaving." The Phyx announced, turning around simultaneously and heading for the door.

Nobody made a move to stop them. Everyone just sat there, thinking about what the Gman had said.

"Surely... there must be some way?" the general practically pleaded. "All my life I have been taught that it is possible... that universal union is a reality... but now, I am not so sure."

"That can't be right." Gordon decided rather loudly. "Surely it can't be true."

_Think, Freeman, think!_

Suddenly, he sat up, almost violently. "Wait!"

"What is it?" the general asked cautiously.

"The Siberian general... he actually _did _help me!"

"How?"

"He told me... he said that the Combine has saved us... that we had merged with the greater good and become part of the striving for perfection... he said that before the Combine, the human race was fighting with itself, waring against each other, and when they came all that ended... why?"

"Why what?" the general asked. "I have to admit I do not understand you, Dr. Freeman."

"Why did we stop fighting? _Because the Combine posed a greater threat than anything we had ever encountered among ourselves!_"

The Gman's eyes widened. "You mean...?"

"The entire human race has been united as one... to fight against the Combine."

"But how can that be applied to the prospect of universal union?" the general asked. "For if everyone is united, then who will be there to pose a threat?"

"No no, general, think about it _backwards. _The human race united when the Combine posed a threat to us. But what if there was a way to not create unity through the presence of a greater threat, but through the _absence _of any threat at all?"

"How can we do that?"

Gordon shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Finally, he closed his eyes. "Gman, I disagree with you. Universal union _is _a reality."

"How?"

"I cannot speak for everyone, but I can imagine that most other species in the universe also share the human view that _peace is good._"

"So... what?"

"_So _if the Combine were to announce a universal senate, like you suggested in the first place, then surely we could convince most nations to combine with the Universal Union under one banner of peace."

"But the Phyx clearly demonstrated not all nations appreciate the nature of the Combine," the Gman answered. "They despise how they force them to conform to their society."

"Then we simply remove that part of the equation."  
"What do you mean?" the general demanded.

"Do you know about the United Nations, general?"

"According to the information I have on the topic, they were a coalition of around two hundred or so human nations... ah!"

"There, you see? The Universal Union does not need to conquer the universe to unite it under one banner, but rather found a universal organisation uniting all nations under a separate banner, one that enforces no foreign cultivation."

"I see what you mean...!" the general nodded. "Yes, that could work! But... there is no way to convince the Universal Union of this..."  
"Why not?"

"I received news from the Phyx personally... that the Resistance rocket destroyed our Capital, along with the Prime Advisors, the only ones with true political authority in our society."

Gordon's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Unless the Phyx were lying, which I highly doubt. Besides, they would have no reason to lie about something negative like that."

"Perhaps they were exaggerating?"

"No, Dr. Freeman," the Gman shook his head sadly. "The dark energy you instructed me to retrieve from the Citadel Dark Energy Reactor in our council chambers last year... it would be impossible for such a potent amount not to destroy over half the planet, including the Prime Advisors."

Gordon bowed his head slowly. "And that's exactly what I wanted."

The general and the Gman watched him in silence, wondering what he was going to do. But he didn't do anything, he just sat there with his eyes jammed shut. "The only way we could end all this fighting... and I destroyed it."

_All to save Alyx and Barney... that would ultimately be for nothing... everything I've done has simply made things _WORSE!

Gordon stood up suddenly, clenching his fists. "I'm so _useless!_" he growled, kicking the casing of a nearby computer console, leaving it resounding with a metallic clang and a shallow dent. "I wrecked any way of ending this fucking mess, all because of my retarded little time-travel idea so that I could save Alyx and Barney, who would just end up getting blown to shit by that bomb anyway!"

Exclaiming in utter fury at himself, Gordon strode angrily over to the metal blast door leading outside and wrenched it open manually, slamming it shut after he had gone through.

The Gman made to follow him, but stopped himself. Then he sat down. "Let him be," he told the general. "He will figure this out for himself."

"What do you think he's going to do?"

The Gman smiled. "He's a smart man, general. If I was worried he'd kill himself, I'd have taken the 9mm from him."

The exact moment the Gman had finished speaking, there was a muffled gunshot from outside.


	21. Twenty: The Second Epiphany

**-=Chapter Twenty: The Second Epiphany=-**

**White Forest, 5:21 PM**

The sudden resounding bang of the gunshot left the three occupants of the Command Centre in momentary shock, before all three of them ran for the blast door, the Gman leading the hurried charge by ripping the blast door back and snapping the large mechanical locking system violently and loudly. The door rocked as it crashed into its frame, sending loose chunks of metal rods and thin plating fluttering from the destroyed lock and onto the floor as the three ran outside.

The Gman crashed through the next door, looking around in the closest to panic he had felt in longer than he cared to remember, before his eyes settled on Freeman's body...

...standing tall and firing at the hangar door, yelling in rage and frustration at himself.

Having realised that the situation was not as critical as the three had originally thought, they relaxed — quite clearly — and merely stood in silence watching as Gordon emptied his magazine on the metal door.

From where he was standing, the Gman could see a blood splatter on that exact door. For a nanosecond he was confused, before he subconsciously patted the coagulated blood caking around his short cropped flattop style hair.

His thoughts interrupted by the incessant clicking of an empty firearm, the Gman returned his gaze to the disgruntled hero of the Resistance. Having emptied his pistol, Gordon's shoulders slumped as he stared at his pointless handiwork.

Holstering the handgun, he dropped to the ground and lay flat on his back, wearily looking up at the darkening sky. "What good am I to the Resistance?" he mumbled, loudly enough so that the people standing behind him could hear his rhetorical questioning. "The One Free Man, misleading the human race one misread screw up at a time..."

"And why do you think that, Dr. Freeman?" the Gman asked evenly, breaking the silence he and those with him had been upholding.

Gordon continued to stare up at the early twilight. "Think about it: Everything I've done has just led the human race down a path of detrimental ignorance. Every bullet that I encouraged to be used against the Combine marked another step toward the point of no return." He paused momentarily, sighing lightly, "And when I pressed that button down, in that very room right behind me... I thrust mankind past that point and into an irreversible spiral of self-destruction."

Sitting up slowly, Gordon bowed his head and closed his bespectacled eyes. "Now there's no way we can help the Combine, and that means no way they can in turn help us, like they were always supposed to."

The Gman, despite the sorrowful nature of the moment, could not deny himself a smile. "Dr. Freeman, you are making rushed conclusions. You must think_, _Freeman, _think_! Is there no way that you can turn this all around and prove to yourself that you are indeed the most important person to walk this Earth since the Combine regime came to power on it?"

"What way would that be, Gman?" Gordon asked, still looking at the concrete underneath him. "You just told me that when I changed the past, I destroyed any possible way of fixing all this!"

"I told you that the Prime Advisors were destroyed, and consequently you could not convince _them _that conquest is not the only way to achieve universal union!" the Gman answered matter-of-factly, watching Gordon as he sat on the ground. "Broaden your mental horizons, Freeman, and consider the ramifications of this situation! From where did this haste to pessimistically criticise yourself and your actions arise?"

"What are you saying, Gman?" Gordon demanded, turning his head to look back at the suited guardian. "How can I be anything but a destroyer?"

"Is that why you fought?" the Gman asked quietly. "Is that why you persevered through the illegal Resistance railway, through the sewers and the rivers to Black Mesa East? Is that why you held off legions of the undead in Ravenholm and platoons of Combine soldiers in the Outlands leading to Nova Prospekt? Is that why you struggled through City 17 and the bowels of the Citadel? To be a destroyer?"

Gordon sat in silence. "No." He answered finally. "I fought what I had seen as injustice. One minute I was sitting in a tram floating in space with you standing before me and offering me a job, and the next I was watching my fellow men being beaten brutally and forced to live in dystopia under the rule of a manifestly evil government of alien invaders being administrated by the man I worked for before you employed me. I didn't have any time to stop and consider what was really going on, or even consider anything other than what everyone around me was undyingly convinced of: the evil purpose of the Combine. I wanted to end that, avenge those suffering injustice under this Combine beast."

"Then we are the same, Freeman." The general spoke up. "We both strive to avenge victims of injustice."

"But you see, I didn't understand that. Now that I do, I can see what I was doing was not only wrong, but detrimental to the cause I was trying to uphold. I was prejudicial with my conclusions, and because of that I have driven the human race into the ground ever since I got here."

"Dr. Freeman," the Gman clasped his hands behind his back. "No matter what damage you think you have caused, I can promise you that what you did has saved the human race."

"How?"

"I will let you answer that yourself, Dr. Freeman: What was Dr. Wallace Breen trying to accomplish?"

"Obviously, he was a collaborator with the Combine. At first, I viewed this negatively, as if he were a traitor of his own kind. What I know see is that I was wrong, he was in fact trying his absolute hardest to help his species. He obviously saw that the Combine had different methods than we did, but unlike me he didn't immediately disregard them as wrong, but instead considered it from their perspective and accepted."

"So Wallace Breen considered their methods from a different angle, unlike you."

"Exactly."

"And how did this go with the public?"

Gordon smiled tightly. "Very badly."

"And how were _your _actions received?"

Gordon's smile widened. "Very well."

"So you see, Dr. Freeman, you were not harming the human race, you were giving them hope."

"False hope."

"Irrelevant, Dr. Freeman. Hope is still hope, no matter if it is genuine or fabrication, intentionally or not. If you had not given the human race spirit..."

"...then the Combine would have gone ahead with their plan, as they always intended."

The Gman stopped. "Ah."

"Ah indeed. See, that's the point: I don't need to exist as I do now. If you had just left me alone on Xen, I could have maybe found a way to escape and get back to Earth. Then maybe I could have lived out my life with little Alyx and Barney and Eli and everyone while the Combine went ahead with their plan and we looked on with ignorant contempt, before they finally completed their plan, possibly much earlier without my intervention and the prising I caused, and we would all realise that the Combine was trying to help us, just not in the way we expected as humans. If things had happened _that _way, then nobody would be dead. We'd just be trying to find a way to fight the Combine, a way that would never come without your help."

Gordon smiled, looking behind him at the Gman. "The Fissionists are at fault here too. You guys misinterpreted the Combine, like we did. But the difference is that you sent me in to follow this misguided mission and destroy a cause that was actually trying to conquer us to save us. Imagine how things would've been without them? We'd have run out of oil eventually, we'd have poisoned the atmosphere and heated up the Earth. We'd have killed ourselves off. With the Combine here, they've stopped that. They've removed our need to use non-renewable energy. They've rationed our food. They've conquered us and convinced us that we can live this way. And when — or if, I guess, after what I've done — they finally get around to cultivating us like everyone else, then we'll see what they were trying to do: they're trying to suppress us so that when they finally show their true colours, we'll appreciate them more for what they have to give."

The Gman smiled. "Indeed, Freeman, we made a mistake. But do you know what we _didn't_ make a mistake about?"

"What?"

"Selecting you."

Gordon snorted. "You're still trying to make me feel better?"

"Of course. If you are still depressed as you are now, you will not be able to operate to your full capacity as Gordon Freeman. Remember, Dr. Freeman, that you are still my employee and thus you will follow my instructions. Now that I understand the error of my ways as a Member of the Fissionist Faction, I can adapt your objectives likewise. You no longer need to destroy the Combine, Gordon. You now need to make peace with them here on Earth."

"And then what?" Gordon asked. "If I actually can make peace here, what happens next?"

"The Combine are coming in seven or so months to evacuate us from this planet," the general explained. "We can send you to the Capital as an ambassador for the human race."

"But the Prime Advisors are destroyed."

"The Combine will have elected a new council of Prime Advisors by then."

"But I still don't understand how I couldn't have done all that before I destroyed the Citadel and the Combine Capital."

"Dr. Freeman," the Gman sighed. "There is one thing that you couldn't do then that you can do now."

"What's that?"

"Elect Earth as the Capital for the Universal Union organization we proposed."

Gordon stopped. Slowly, he stood up and turned around, the faint darkness veiling his face in a light silhouette. "Elect _Earth _as the Capital?"

"If the human race can sign some form of peace treaty with the Combine stationed on Earth, then you can be elected as an ambassador to announce this proposition with the Prime Advisors on the Combine Capital. Should we be able to make peace, I have complete confidence that the Fissionist Faction will back these endeavours however possible. After all, it is our duty to defend the universe, however we can."

"Your orders aren't to destroy the Combine, but aid them if it will be beneficial for the defence of the universe, right?"

"We will defend the universe however possible. If that includes pacification through this organization we proposed, then the Fissionist Faction will help in any way to make that proposal a reality."

"With Earth as the Capital?"

"The Fissionist has a good point," the general agreed. "The Combine are not so unreasonable as you may think. If you can convince the Prime Advisors of this proposal, then it would be likely they elect Earth as the head of the organization."

Gordon watched the three standing there, his gaze slowly turning to the elderly scientist who had kept his silence the entire time. "Well, Dr. Magnusson?"

Clearing his throat, Magnusson clasped his hands behind his back and raised himself up portentously. "It sounds like an intelligent proposition, from where I'm standing. Even if this general recently assassinated a colleague of mine... I think that you and he both have already cleared up that what the Combine and the human race have been doing this past year has been misguided. Besides, I think Freeman has done his fair share of damage to the Combine. I never considered peace an option, but should the opportunity arise I am entirely convinced we should take it."

"As am I," the Gman agreed, nodding solemnly.

"But the problem remains," the general interrupted. "How are we going to sign a peace treaty?"

"That's what you're trying to do, isn't it?"

"There's been talk of the Advisors in Geneva having something personal against you, Dr. Freeman," the general explained. "And the Combine is loyal to the Advisors. If the Advisors deem it necessary that they settle a score with you, the Overwatch will crush you beneath their feet at the first chance they get, like they've been trying to for the past year or so. Remember, you're still Anticitizen One. The Advisors don't know that we've had this discussion, so that label's going to stick until you make it public that you want peace. Even then, if the Advisors really do want you dead on a personal level then they won't accept any proposal you make."

Gordon frowned. "The Advisors want me dead?"

"You're the poster-boy for this entire uprising, Dr. Freeman," the general continued. "Of course, nobody's ever taken revenge against insurrectionists like you before, and the Advisors have never taken it that far. Then again, nobody's ever blown up half our Capital before either..."

"So you're saying the Advisors might want revenge on me?"

"I can't confirm anything, since all I've heard are rumours. People are saying the Advisors planned the nuking of Rostock just to kill you off."

"Shit..." Gordon whispered. "What are we going to do then?"

The general smiled. "The people those rumours came from would be glad to help you, should it turn out you're no longer trying to kill us."

"But I thought you just said the Combine are loyal to the Advisors."

"Well... yes, but the Advisors are supposed to be loyal to the Prime Advisors. A vendetta against the Resistance would be strictly prohibited, since we are operating as law enforcement until we can cultivate your species. Suffice it to say that if worst comes to worst, the Prime Advisors have the final say and if the Advisors here on Earth try to oppose their orders, the Overwatch will take action against them."

"The Overwatch... rebelling against the Advisors?"

"It's possible. But unless there's hard evidence showing the Advisors' opposition to the jurisdiction of the Prime Advisors, there will be people who refute any conjecture made against them, no matter how convincing it is."

"Hold on, I'm confused. What do you mean?"

"I mean that unless proof is given in the hypothetical event that the Advisors really _do _want revenge on you, then there will be a split between the Overwatch: those who accept the conjecture without solid evidence in favour of obeying the Prime Advisors, and those who will deny it and continue to obey the orders of the Advisors."

"And what will happen if there is a split?"

The glossy gold of the general's eyepieces glistened in the twilight. "There will be bloodshed."

—

Less than twelve hours after Dr. Breen's first Breencast to the Combine forces on Earth in over a year, a second one began airing at exactly 5:30 PM. Apart from this being rather unusual, nobody thought much about that after seeing that it wasn't Wallace Breen on the screen before the millions of soldiers watching.

It was an Overwatch soldier, bearing a French insignia of five stars on his shoulder.

"Men of the Transhuman Arm of the Overwatch," the general began. "I am Soldier 46859, the five star general of the French Overwatch. This afternoon, at approximately five o'clock post meridian, a coup d'état was staged in the Palace of Nations at Geneva, Switzerland. As many of you may be aware, this is the location of the Advisor Council Chambers. It was built in 2003 as a gathering place for all Advisors, should the Citadel become unavailable for said purpose."

Everyone in proximity to a screen was now watching this general talk, calmly explaining that he, assumedly, had just overthrown the Advisors from their place in Geneva.

"As you all know, at eight am this morning, Dr. Wallace Breen, our administrator and diplomat for the human race, made an announcement that the Advisors had seen to the nuking of the German city of Rostock, a large Combine-controlled urban centre containing an estimated one hundred thousand Overwatch troops. Along with admitting most of these brave soldiers had no idea there was a nuclear device ready to detonate within their city, Dr. Breen also announced that the Advisors had done so to destroy Dr. Gordon Freeman, the infamous leader of the Romanian Resistance and the core for human morale all over the globe. While this action would be celebrated in most situations, it was not so today. Because, fellow members of the Overwatch, when a hundred thousand of our brothers are _massacred_ to kill one important figure in the human insurrection, that signifies no cause for festivity."

For the second time that day, the soldiers watching were split. One side sat disgusted at this horrible decision, infuriated at the lack of faith this general had for his superiors. The other side watched the screen intently, staring in silence at the man on the screen or whispering excitedly to one another.

The Overwatch had been split.

"And when something so drastic, so opposed to our true purpose happens, as it did last night... those who can take action have it upon themselves to do so, and right the wrong that the Advisors have caused through their ignorant haste and arrogant determination to destroy. Today, _I _took action. Today, I have made a genuine allegiance with our administrator and sworn to fulfil the promise the Advisors made to him all those years ago, when we first arrived: to make peace with the human race, and cultivate them under the banner of the Universal Union. Wallace Breen tried, so many times, to convince his people that this is why we are here. Unfortunately, his people ignored him. Today... I want the entirety of the human race to know that we want peace with you, no matter what sick misdeeds the Advisors have committed against you these past two decades. That is my promise, and if I fail to deliver on it then so help me I will surrender myself to the Advisors and allow them to do with me whatever they see fit. After all, they have now labelled me as an insurrectionist, just like the late Dr. Gordon Freeman. Perhaps they will destroy me with a nuclear weapon also, in a city full of innocent members of the Overwatch who have given their entire lives to the Combine.

"And so, fellow members of the Overwatch, I ask you to decide: will you follow the legislative body of these corrupt Advisors, or will you take a stand against them and strive toward our true objective, the one we were given by the Prime Advisors two decades ago?

"Decide for yourself whose side you are on."

At that moment, every Breencast screen on the Earth cut to black, leaving every single onlooker on the planet standing in silence.

Then the muttering started. A low murmur of conflicting opinions and beliefs that slowly rose in volume until they were anarchistic yells in a rioting crowd.

"What evidence is there?" a Belgian officer demanded to his soldiers angrily, staring back at the blank Breencast screen not a metre from his seat. "This ridiculous revolution is based on mere conjecture! The Advisors are fighting this uprising the same way we have been this past year! That general is a fool, a radical idiot whose judgement is obscured by arrogant haste!" the officer stood up suddenly. "I, for one, will not stand for this tomfoolery! This general will see what kind of action the Overwatch is going to take, and I swear that he will not enjoy one second of it!"

All across the planet, riots broke out. Soldiers opened fire on each other, some Resistance members took advantage of the chaos and celebrated the anarchy, some discussed whether the general was being legitimate, others still were confused by the sudden outbreak of Combine violence for what they understood was for no reason at all, having missed the controversial Breencast.

No matter what side you were on, no matter whether you were fighting for the Advisors or the French general, one thing was certain.

There was indeed bloodshed.

**White Forest, 5:49 PM**

"_Decide for yourself whose side you are on."_

The recording ended, leaving the Gman to lean back and welcome discussion.

Gordon scratched his goatee thoughtfully. "Well, I think we all know what we're going to be doing now."

"And what's that?" the Gman asked, cocking an eyebrow.

The general and Dr. Magnusson both looked at Gordon, who smiled and leaned forward in his chair. "It's simple," Gordon explained, "that general is our one chance at making peace, and that means we need to talk to him."

The Gman nodded. "I agree."

"You got that recording from the Fissionists, yes?" Dr. Magnusson inquired.

Nodding once more, the Gman smiled. "After the general and I had explained everything to them, the Fissionists interrupted us to show the Breencast. I must say, it was quite interesting to think how quickly the Overwatch must have split after it ended."

"The Fissionists have accepted the proposal, right?" Gordon asked quietly.

The general nodded. "I was scared shitless, I can tell you that."

"So they'll be helping us?"

"However possible." The Gman affirmed.

Gordon smiled, nodding his head slowly. "Right. Well, gentlemen, I believe it's time to have a little talk with that French general."

"There's going to be one hell of an opposition," the general reminded Gordon. "half the Overwatch is going to be doing anything they can to restore the Advisors to power."

Gordon shrugged. "That's how I like it. Anyone who gets in the way of the peace I've denied my species this past year is going to get their brains blown out."

The Gman smiled. "_That's _the Gordon Freeman I know."

Gordon chuckled to himself, patting the USP Match in his holster. "And he's here to stay."

**Borealis, 5:51 PM**

"This is going to be interesting."

"It'll be a hell of a lot more so when I'm in the fray."

"You won't be the only one, Corporal Shephard. This cannot be allowed to come to fruition. There is a possibility that Gordon Freeman will try and accept this general's proposal, and we cannot allow that to happen."  
"Because it'll mean peace between the human race and the Combine?"

"And if my doppelganger is backing Freeman, it is undeniable that the entire Fissionist Faction will too. That totals to three powerhouses that will get in the way of exacting my revenge on the Fissionists."

"So you want me to kill the French general."

"No, not yet. If Freeman does try to accept his proposal, then he'll meet with him personally. If that happens, you can take them both out at one place."

"And then you'll deal with the Gman?"

"Exactly."

A loud clap echoed in the enclosed space. "I'm looking forward to this."

"So am I, Corporal Shephard, so am I."

—

**-=END OF PART II=-**

* * *

**And that, people, is the end of Part II. Yes, I know I said there'd be only two parts, but splitting it in three means that each section is equal and different. Part I lay the foundation for the story, Part II built up from there and Part III will be the final culmination of everything that's been leading up to it.**

**Part I was half action half plot-stuff.**

**Part II was mostly plot stuff with a little bit of action.**

**Part III is going to be mostly action, with maybe one or two important plot things that you are going to go crazy over. It's gonna be the rollercoaster ride you've been waiting in line for all this time, and I'm sorry for the ridiculous wait. But now, it's finally time to bust out the big guns and blow everyone to shit, because Freeman's got a place to be and there's a hell of a lotta soldiers trying to stop him, not to mention a corporal with a vengeance and a doppelganger Gman.  
**


	22. Twenty One: Provenance

**PART III: Culminative Destinatons**

**-=Chapter Twenty One: Provenance=-**

**White Forest, 8:26 PM**

Kleiner's funeral was what the memorial of a loved man should be: quiet and respectful. There was the occasional muffled sob from behind clasped hands, but otherwise the proceedings were as quiet as the grave the poor man was now being laid to rest in.

His grave was beside Dr. Eli Vance's, to the left. Gordon's eyes flittered over to the upturned soil to the right of Eli's grave, flashes of vivid memories speeding past his eyes.

_Darkness... pale glowing faces in a ring around him... a blue suited arm, pulling him from the cold dark dirt..._

"_Welcome back, Dr. Freeman..."_

Why didn't they raise Dr. Kleiner?

_He was far in his years, _the Phyx had explained before they had left. _Not much energy had remained in his body... perhaps not enough to allow him to rise._

The Phyx had left an hour before, refusing to take refuge at White Forest now that the Resistance had allied with their greatest enemy. They were not without respect, however, and gave their thanks for the hospitality, however short it had been. Magnusson had promised them a safe haven on Earth, no matter what political status was in play.

There was no resurrection for Isaac Kleiner.

And eventually, no matter how many times he was put in stasis or raised from the dead, he too had to die.

But the difference was that when that time came, he would welcome it with open arms. After all, he had someone waiting for him beyond the darkness...

Who did Dr. Kleiner have waiting for him? He'd never spoken about a wife, nor had Gordon ever seen him with another woman, unlike Eli, who had often been with Azian and occasionally with young Alyx too.

Gordon watched as Kleiner's coffin was lowered into the excavated grave, his thoughts wandering inside his mind. How beautiful she had been, so young and innocent, back when the world was good and life was exciting in a giant underground facility with a laid back security guard and enthusiastic and friendly colleagues that he easily befriended, and he lived in his own little world under the surface of New Mexico.

Nothing like life was now. Now, his former workplace and home had been completely destroyed, and the surface was littered with death, carnage and anarchy. Soldiers of two separate species engaged each other in open warfare, gunning each other down.

At least, that was how it had been. Now, things were looking up. Peace was in their sights... and it was going to be a reality, if he had anything to say about it.

Which he did.

—

There were only three of them left now: Gordon, Magnusson, and the Gman.

Eli had been killed by an Advisor.

Alyx and Barney had been incinerated by the Rostock nuclear warhead.

Kleiner had been shot by the Swedish general they were now allied with.

Gordon turned his gaze away from the Overwatch officer standing on the opposite side of the wide wooden table the four of them were huddled around, looking over at Magnusson. Any sorrow or pain he was feeling for Kleiner's death, he was hiding it pretty damn well. His mouth was set, his expression deadpan and focused.

Gordon looked back down at the table, not even bothering a glance at the Gman. His face seldom changed at all, let alone showed expression. That didn't mean he was apathetic, but quite the opposite. He was just good at hiding everything.

_Must be a killer at poker_.

"Let's go over this once more, shall we?" Magnusson decided, tapping a long thin rod down on the documents sprawled across the table. "Freeman, you and the general are going to Geneva to find the leader of this coup and discuss peace with him. Doubtless you know that there will be monumental resistance around the proximity, especially from neighbouring Overwatch units whose loyalties still lie with the Advisors regime."

Magnusson turned his head to the suited guardian across from him. "Gman, you will be tracking down your... _doppelganger_, did you say?"

"Indeed." The Gman nodded slowly, a thin smile crossing his lips.

"Pray tell, what on earth are you talking about?" Magnusson demanded, smacking the rod against the table.

"You don't know?" Gordon asked curiously, frowning at Magnusson's ignorance.

"Are you telling me that you do, Dr. Freeman?" Magnusson cocked his head at Gordon.

"Of course," Gordon smiled. "The Gman told me after I agreed not to shoot myself in the head last night."

_Last night... I've only been alive almost two days and I've already seen the tide turn in this war._

Magnusson huffed. "Apparently, our Fissionist friend here deemed it unnecessary to inform those of authority about this _doppelganger._"

The Gman stared coldly at Magnusson. "It merely slipped my mind, Magnusson. I would advise you be less precarious when making weak and frankly pointless accusations against me."

Magnusson straightened his neck. "If you would please just tell me who this person is?"

Before he could answer, a quiet chuckle escaped the masked lips of the Swedish general. "So _that's _who he is..."

The Gman looked over at the general. "I'm not quite sure I understand your meaning, general. If you are referring to my presence at Inferno Abyss, I can assure you that was indeed me."

"No, no, that's not what I mean," the general shook his head. "No, what I meant was the other Fissionist my Romanian comrade theorised... he must be this doppelganger you speak of."

"Your Romanian comrade?"

"Brigadier general, survived the Four Hour Siege here last year," the general explained. "Said he saw two Gordon Freemans and a man in a blue suit and purple tie standing on the roof."

Gordon and the Gman exchanged knowing glances.

"Anyway, his theory was that there were two Gordon Freemans because the Gman altered the past, thus there would also be two Gmen and that's why the Resistance is doing so well against the Combine," the general continued. "So he came and told this theory to the Advisors, and they agreed. However, Dr. Wallace Breen came in personally and suggested that because time travel was part of the equation, any sort of unpredictable thing could have happened between you and this doppelganger. Apparently, he was right."

"He was indeed," the Gman agreed.

"So what happened between you and him?"  
The Gman sighed. "Such potential gone to waste in a man whose ideology is flawed by immorality."

"What does that mean?" Magnusson snorted arrogantly.

"It means that he is convinced it would be beneficial to erase all life in the universe to save them from any possible suffering they might have to endure." The Gman explained.

"Ridiculous!" Magnusson blurted out.

"It does seem rather radical, doesn't it?" the general nodded slowly, cracking his neck. "Not to mention foolish."

"I tried to deter his thought, but he resolutely pushed on. He tried to convince the Fissionist Faction that he was right, and ended up being targeted for immediate termination. As you would expect, he ran."

"And you're looking for him so you can complete that task?" Magnusson inquired.

"Precisely."

With a nod of his head, Magnusson looked at the small group with him. "Gentlemen, you have your orders. I will remain here at White Forest and attempt to contact the French general in Geneva so I can explain your intentions to him."

"Right." Gordon nodded, heading for the door. "I'm guessing we leave immediately?"

"Preferably so," Magnusson agreed, before his expression softened slightly, "good luck out there, people. I don't want to lose anyone else today."

"Rest assured, Magnusson," the Gman placed a comforting hand on the elderly man's shoulder, "that we'll all be back here soon enough."

The general walked past Magnusson, following the suited guardian and the bespectacled fighter. "Take it easy, Magnusson." He offered, before closing the doors behind him.

Magnusson watched the doors close, bowing his head in respect. "God help us all," he whispered to himself.

**Fissionist Council Chambers**

"You appear injured, Member Eight." The First Member noted, nodding his head slightly as the Gman raised a pianist-esque finger to the blood caked around his hair. "Are you of stable medical condition?"

The Gman smiled, lowering his hand as a sign of dismissal to his health. "Worry not, Member Eight... I am in no critical condition. Far from it, in fact. What I came here to request of you is the location of my twin, have you any information on his whereabouts?"

"Regrettably, we have not had a single shred of information on his positioning. He has been hiding himself well." The First Member admitted. "However, we do have some information concerning the location of Corporal Adrian Shephard, should you be interested in that."

_Corporal Shephard... after I threw him off that cliff and my doppelganger made an allegiance with him, I believe he went to Dnieper River to kill Dr. Freeman. What happened to him after that?_

"Where has he been this past day?" the Gman asked. "The last I knew of his movements was his presence at the Dnieper River."

The Fissionists, for some strange reason, seemed confused by this statement. Seeing their reaction, the Gman too shared a part in their perplexity. "Whatever is the matter, fellow Members?"

"Member Eight, were you not aware of Corporal Shephard's presence at Rostock during the Resistance offensive approximately twenty five hours ago?"

The Gman's confusion remained a moment, before he realised what they meant. "Corporal Shephard was at Rostock... while Dr. Freeman was?"

"We were under the impression you had knowledge of this fact," the First Member continued, somewhat puzzled by this revelation.

"I was... occupied at the time," the Gman explained slowly, scratching his chin. "But no, this makes no sense. Did you say you have information of Corporal Shephard's location?"

"Indeed, we located him in Switzerland not twenty minutes ago. What seems to be the issue here?"

"But how is that possible?" the Gman demanded, his forceful tone branching from his bemused emotions at this contradiction of facts. "If Corporal Shephard was at Rostock during the nuking, he would have been incinerated in identical fashion to Ms. Vance, Mr. Calhoun and Dr. Freeman! Why then does he still walk the Earth?"

The Fissionists began talking quietly among themselves. Certainly, this was a strange conundrum, one they would have to ponder upon to find rational explanation.

"We can rule out the possibility of hallucination," the First Member declared immediately. "We are all witness to this man living and breathing, despite the apparent contradiction his existence causes."

"Then inevitably, we have made an error somewhere in our assumptions." The Gman concluded, pausing for a moment. "Let me consider the history of this man, from the beginning of our surveillance: Corporal Shephard was stationed at the Santiago Military Base. On May 16th, 2001, he was deployed to the Black Mesa Research Facility to investigate and erase all evidence of alien invasion at the base and remove any potential threat through any means necessary. On May 17th, 2001, I placed him in stasis inside one of the U.S Marine Corps V-22 Osprey helicopters, empty of all other personnel. On October 13th, 2021, I removed him from stasis and sent him on his mission to destroy Dr. Gordon Freeman, just as I had in the alternate timeline. As I had orchestrated, Freeman dispatched him with professional ease and everything proceeded as originally planned. On November 12th, 2022, the five Phyx sent from Trysik six months previously arrived at Inferno Abyss to resurrect Corporal Shephard. On November 13th, 2022, Corporal Shephard attacked the Resistance force in Ukraine with the intent of killing Dr. Freeman. That same day, he went to Rostock and at 8:01 PM the Siberian nuclear warhead was detonated and he was incinerated, along with everyone else present at the time, excluding myself and my twin."

Looking around the room, the Gman clasped his hands together. "Now where in my recollection were there _two _Corporal Shephards?"

Not receiving an answer, the Gman continued. "It is my assumption that, like previous occasions of similar nature, time travel is the key factor here."

"But how is that possible?" the First Member inquired. "Even if Corporal Shephard was raised by the Phyx in the alternate timeline, how would he have made his way into this timeline?"

The Gman scratched his neck. "I agree, it is impossible. The only explanation I have is that we made an error in our assumption concerning the operation of temporal shifting."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, we don't know everything about time travel... and consequently we must have made a mistake somewhere in our logical theories pertaining to it."

The Fissionists all looked at him in confusion, wondering what he meant. "Member Eight, what are you suggesting we have been incorrect about?"

"As of now, I have no guesses." The Gman admitted. "But I hope I will be able to come up with an explanation. Now, if you don't mind, could I have the location of Corporal Shephard?"

—

"So how were we getting to Geneva again?" Gordon muttered, hands on his hips as he scanned the catastrophic mess of twisted, jagged metal and chunks of dislodged concrete that now remained in the centre of the aircraft hangar of White Forest.

He'd really messed the place up.

Glancing over his shoulder, he nodded at the general. "This was because of you," he tapped his temple twice, nodding back at the destruction, "don't forget that."

The general showed no remorse. Then again, he was wearing a full mask so there wasn't much by way of physical expression that could show anything. "My objectives haven't changed, only my understanding of my former enemy. I shot you because I was trying to reinstate peace, and that hasn't changed."

Gordon waved a hand. "Forget it. Usually I'd have blasted your balls off by now because of what you did to Dr. Kleiner... but I guess my hands aren't exactly clean either, are they?"  
"You murdered the Siberian general, didn't you?"

"Originally, I was going to go blow up his base too."

"Why didn't you?"

Gordon smiled. "I was only going to stop there if it meant getting the general too. Since I got him on the way, there wasn't any reason to."

The general nodded slowly. "You humans aren't all that bad, are you?"

Gordon laughed briefly, walking back toward the stairs. "We try. Come on, we're not getting to Switzerland on that."

Taking one last look at the utterly destroyed scrap metal that had once been a Hunter Chopper, the general followed the theoretical physicist back toward the Command Centre. "So how are we getting there?" he asked, jogging quickly up the stairs after Freeman.

Gordon looked over his shoulder at the general, shrugging. "No idea, mate. Maybe we'll have to drive."

"You cannot be serious."

"Why not? It's not that far."

"It's over a thousand miles!"

"One thousand, four hundred and nine, to be exact."

"How do you...?" the general began, before waving a gloved hand in dismissal. "Forget it. Look, you can't be serious about driving."

"Do you know about my car?" Gordon asked, heading through the blast door to the Command Centre.

"I've heard the reports about a certain vehicle you were driving last year... but I was under the impression it was in the Citadel."

Gordon frowned, looking at the general in confusion. "What do... oh, wait, not that one." His frown turned to a smile. "Not that one. No, Alyx and I found a gutted out muscle car at the Victory Mines."

"Where's that?"

Gordon rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. What matters is it goes damn fast, and there aren't any speed limits anymore."

"What about gasoline and oil?"

Gordon shrugged. "We've got some lying around here. Down below. Should be enough to get us there."

"You're serious about taking the car?"

"Sure I am. I can't see any other way we're going to get there."

The general groaned. "This is going to be fun."

"Look on the bright side, we'll have time to bond."

"For the two days it takes to get there?"

"What do you want to do while we're driving?"

"Sit in silence? Not drive at all?"

"Look, general," Gordon clapped his hands together. "I don't know how else we're gonna get there. All our choppers are gone, there's not a single Hunter Chopper nearby and all we've got by way of transportation is my car, or walking. What'll it be?"

The general sighed. "Let's take the car."

"Excellent." Gordon smiled. "Well, we'll have to leave tomorrow anyway, it's too dark now."

"What about the Gman? Has he left?"

"Oh, sure. A bit of darkness isn't going to stop him." Gordon stopped momentarily. "I think he still has the bullet you shot him with."

The general cocked his head. "It's not unusual to collect a bullet as a memento."

Gordon smiled thinly. "It is if it's still in your brain."

**Palace of Nations, Geneva, 8:47 PM**

It was an odd structure, no doubt about it. From where he was standing, he could see the right angled formations of the building, joining onto what could be described as a cube of polished white masonry. Looking up at the darkening sky, Shephard caught a glimpse of a small flock of birds, gliding far overhead, their pristine white feathers silhouetted in the dusk. From their eyes, the building would look like some kind of giant polygonal body with two long white appendages extending from it.

Right now, it was 7:47 PM here in Geneva, according to Central European Time. Over in Romania it was an hour later, if the people there were keeping local time. Aware of this fact, Shephard's brain subconsciously told him it would be wise to switch to night vision. Raising a hand to the side of his mask, the lenses of his mask took up a faint aura of fluorescent green, emanating from his consequently darkened gasmask and adding another level of uncanny menace to his appearance.

His eyesight now aided by the remarkably operational night vision, Shephard scanned the Palace of Nations from the nearby rooftop. Keeping the tradition of most significant landmarks, there weren't many buildings surrounding it so Shephard had simply remained on the amply flat roof at the far left corner of the Palace that he arrived on, surrounded by the Parc de Ariana, or the Ariana Park. From where he was, he could see Lake Geneva, which the Palace itself was facing.

Of course, he wasn't there for sightseeing. He was there to scout out the rooftops, looking for a way into the building should he ever need one. The security was tight as shit, but nobody was expecting there to be anyone on the roof, especially not a supposedly dead Marine. After all, there hadn't been any aircraft flying over so it was illogical to assume someone would just appear on the roof.

How ironic that that was exactly how he had gotten there.

"Tell me where he is." The Gman ordered, taking a silent step up to Shephard from behind him. His sudden appearance had undoubtedly given Shephard one hell of a scare, and it was obvious from the way his faintly glowing green lenses jerked back in surprise.

Pausing for a moment, the Gman closed his eyes. "That glow is extremely conspicuous." He noted, staring through the lenses and into Shephard's veiled eyes. "And certainly you are aware there is a monumental amount of personnel patrolling the perimeter. God forbid anyone try to end this coup so shortly after it has commenced."

Not bothering to deactivate his night vision, Shephard watched the Gman's intelligently glistening eyes, unconsciously searching for something within their infinite depths. "He's on the Borealis," he explained slowly, keeping his gaze steady.

Not even offering a satisfied smile, the Gman continued his questioning. "According what I have accepted as factual knowledge, your existence is a contradiction."

"You're saying I shouldn't exist?"

"Bound to the terrestrial borders of the planet on which we operate," the Gman offered as vague explanation, "using the Council Chambers as a terminal to the boundless reaches of the universe."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that there is no way my twin could have orchestrated your existence synthetically." The Gman elaborated calmly. "The technology on this planet was scarcely regarded as primitive in the regard of cloning before the Combine came, and it hasn't done any better in the past two decades they've been here. The only way he could have created you from a sample of your DNA would be through a cloning device on a far superiorly advanced planet, only accessible via the Fissionist Council Chambers, and should he set a single foot inside it he would be terminated in the fastest and most efficient manner."

"So I'm not a clone."

"Such is impossible. Thus, the only explanation that remains is an error I have made in what I have assumed to be fact."

"What would that error be?"

The Gman looked up at the grey sky above him, dim stars beginning to shine. "That is what I intend to discover." Straightening his tie, the Gman looked back down at Shephard. "I appreciate your cooperation, Corporal Shephard."

"Wait," Shephard interrupted. "You're just leaving?"

"I see no reason prohibiting the possibility."

"You're not going to kill me?"

The Gman smiled thinly. "No, I'm not. Because now I understand your position."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I know how you really feel about my twin, and consequently I cannot hold such instinctive motivation against you. Neither can I hold your lust for revenge against you and use it as justification for your murder." The Gman paused. "Are you aware of the fact that the Corporal Shephard that I _truly _knew was incinerated in Rostock by a nuclear warhead from Siberia?"

"I was told about that."

"Surely my twin explained the allegiance that was made between that man and himself."

"Yes."

"Then you must know that I attempted to kill him."

"I knew that as well."

"Do you know why?"

Shephard stopped. "Unless you're lying, it wasn't because he wanted to kill Freeman... like I do."

The Gman nodded. "Indeed. It was because he was potentially associating himself with the Combine. But now, the tables have turned on the diplomatic relations with the human race and the Combine and as such that is no longer an issue, but a benefit."

"So avenging myself and my comrades isn't enough to justify you killing me?"

"That feud is between you and Dr. Freeman alone. I will not interfere."

"And... you know why I'm not allying myself with the human race, but your... twin."

The Gman smiled. "As I said before, I am aware of your instinctive relationship with him."

"You make it sound like we're together or something."

Chuckling softly, the Gman shook his head. "Nothing of the sort. Unless you consider _fear _to be an integral component of a romantic couple."

And with that, the Gman turned on his heels and left, leaving Shephard to wait in silence and let his brain realise that the Gman really did know.

* * *

**I'm sorry nobody died in this chapter. But people will in the next chapter. In other news, I finally got Team Fortress 2 and... it doesn't work. Keeps dropping the secure connection to Valve Anti-Cheat after like one minute in-game. Apparently it happens to heaps of other people, and most haven't had any success fixing it up. I just wasted eight bucks buying it. I get Portal for free, and it works like a charm. **

**Moral of the story is: 'never pay money for anything when you can get it for free'. But I'm not promoting piracy... because piracy is 'WRONG'. :)**


	23. Twenty Two: Contradictions

**-=Chapter Twenty Two: Contradictions=-**

**White Forest, 11:17 PM**

It was raining once again.

A heavy rattle of water drops falling in torrents under the laws of gravity, pounding the concrete and corrugated roofing with varying pitch and volume, rained upon the lush countryside outside of Bucharest. The thick rolling clouds in the heavens were invisible in the identical darkness of the night, precipitating from their place in the silence of the sky.

There was no thunder.

There was no lightning.

There was only the heavy rain, a constant blur of individual droplets glistening in what little light could be gathered from the lights inside White Forest.

Blinking his eyes and breaking his subconsciously fixated gaze of the downpour, Gordon slowly turned his head away from the window and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes calmly and baring the slightest of satisfied smiles.

_I don't remember it like this... _he thought, his considerations flowing through his bright young mind at the speed of light. _For the past year, my life has been a cavalcade of idyllic sunshine and prosperity in paradise with Alyx. I had forgotten how beautiful rain could be..._

It was if God had changed the weather specifically to complement the atmosphere, releasing the floodgates of heaven in a manner as spectacular as this. It was so beautiful, and at the same time so chaotic and noisy and violent.

_Just like life..._

Gordon opened his eyes. Rain was just like life: it was both beautiful and chaotic at once, a perfect collaboration of sense and disorder, of knowledge and ignorance. And like rain, it made things _grow_.

It _strengthened _people...

It _augmented _people...

Gordon looked back out the window, his smile widening as he devoured the strange serenity he derived from the clustered, thunderous gathering of precipitated hydrogen and oxygen.

Life was _good_.

If only he could share the joy of this gift with another...

**Borealis**

The sky was a yawning gap of impenetrable darkness above the faint ghostly glow of the towering ice walls on either side of the crevasse. On the far side of this behemoth of dull white was a colossal silhouette in the form of a large ship embedded in it.

Stretching both sides of this gargantuan fissure was a dead straight gunmetal grey walkway, connecting to both the desolate underground Combine base on the left side and a makeshift entrance burnt into the left side of the ship's hull by blowtorch on the right.

And slowly walking across this long metal paseo, the rustling clothes on his body veiled in darkness, was the Gman.

Reaching the halfway point, the shadowy figure stopped and raised his head, scanning the dark shape of the Borealis as if wary of things lurking within. In reality, he was wondering where his doppelganger was.

"I presume you have yet to define his exact coordinates?" the man whispered, the sound lost even to his own ears against the force of the wind.

"We have encountered a predicament of sorts, regrettably." The First Member's voice whispered, the vibrations translated into words fed directly to his primary auditory cortex. The sound was extremely odd, on the aural level somewhere between someone speaking into your ear and thinking of words in your mind. It wasn't _not _sound, though, but it was clear and coherent over the merciless gale.

"Of what sort?"

"Member Eight, while we can confirm with utmost assurance that, unless Corporal Shephard was lying, your target is somewhere inside the Borealis, the only reason we can be certain of this is that he cannot do anything physical equal to or greater than the level of energy required to stand up. The reason for this being he is still hiding himself from us."

"And not even the combined power of all nine of you is sufficient enough to negate these effects?" the Gman inquired, pursing his lips.

"If he were to give off so much as a calorie of energy, we could have his location pinpointed in less time than it takes for light to travel one millimetre. As it is, he has maintained all functions of his body so that not even that will happen unless through some random chance you find him and he moves."

A thin smile crossed the Gman's icy lips. "So be it."

Without another word, he continued his walk toward the Borealis, his footfalls silent in the fierce roar of the wind blustering all around him.

As he made the final few steps toward the looming image of the eerie hull, his head snapped up, looking up at the guard rail surrounding the deck about three metres above him. Not even breaking his stride, the Gman cleanly leapt up onto the guard rail and flung himself over it, landing neatly on the cold deck of the ship.

Straightening up, he was once again amazed at how wonderful the sight before him was: a science vessel half embedded in ice, perfectly and flawlessly. It was incredible just looking at all the little parts of the deck, the machinery on it and the command bridge itself, all of which were partially blocked by the ice.

It was as if someone had drawn a line down the middle of the boat, dug a niche in the ice that would compensate for everything to the right of that line, inserted the boat in that cavity and frozen it in. But just by looking at it all thoughts of synthetic design were erased, it was only possible that nature had caused the ice to encompass the parts of the ship it did so seamlessly.

Of course, the Gman knew this was the case. The Borealis had been teleported into the ice by the Aperture Laboratories Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System, GLaDOS, and because it was physically impossible for both the ice and the boat to occupy the physical space that the teleportation had demanded, nature was forced to compensate for this by effectively sealing the portion of the boat teleported inside the iceface in.

It was absolutely astounding, no matter which way you looked at it: a boat embedded in ice. The only reason it hadn't fallen out was that the percentage of the boat frozen in the ice was about fifty percent, therefore it hadn't overbalanced and torn itself from its place in the fissure.

The Gman walked over to the bridge, walking up the frigid metal stairs leading inside before clambering onto the roof and turning to face the crevasse wall.

He suspected it would be the last time he would ever see it that way.

Smiling to himself, he allowed himself a quiet sigh of pity, his breath making a faint warm mist float before his eyes. "Perhaps I should have brought a camera," he whispered, placing a pale hand on the frozen wall.

And the ice simply split.

It wasn't anything overdramatic, no gigantic splits stretching from top to bottom. What did happen was a large crack circled around the entirety of the ship from front to back, going in as deep into the fissure wall as the boat was lodged.

If someone had been viewing from the bullet-riddled remains of the Combine gate on the other side of the gargantuan hole in the ground, it would look as if God had slammed an enormous oval cookie-cutter into the ice and pulled it back out, leaving a perfectly shaped indent around the entire vessel.

And then came the cataclysmic cracking of ice, the crackling and snapping of solidified water as it scraped against itself, the friction making an ear-splitting crackle like someone rubbing two huge blocks of roughly cut ice against each other. Slowly at first, the slight angle the boat was on overbalanced it, causing it to slide at a snail's pace from its little hole for almost a decade. Gradually, it increased in speed, gravity taking effect and the friction smoothing out the surfaces and making them slick, leaving small watery residue from the ground-up sleet that sped up the sliding behemoth of ice and steel even more, until finally it tipped off the edge of the cavity, turning so that it's starboard side was facing directly up to the sky, and it fell into the seemingly bottomless crevasse below.

The Gman, who had climbed down from the roof and was now holding onto the staircase safety rail with the desperation and frantic energy of a businessman descending an escalator, merely watched as the world around him whirled in a kaleidoscopic swirl of light colours and deafening crashes, screeches and clangs of metal as the Borealis bounced down the steep cliffside, spinning wildly as it went and sending chunks of tattered metal, severed slivers of ice and ignited material all over the fissure.

Finally, after almost ten seconds of constant falling at the mercy of gravity and momentum, the Borealis had reached a final speed of one hundred and thirty eight kilometres per hour before it _slammed_, port side first, into the floor of the crevasse, the entire ship erupting in a catastrophic ceremony of explosions, grinding and bending metal.

And after all this chaos had begun to quiet down, the battered remains of the ship made one final groan of immeasurable stress and rolled over, crashing down once more and flattening the command bridge against the frozen ground.

The Gman smiled to himself, though he was unable to examine his handiwork as he was now under the effectively capsized boat and thus almost none of what little light there had been earlier was entering into his eyes. Still holding calmly onto the stairs — now hanging upside down — the Gman let go with one hand and reached down to the ground, which was now mere centimetres from his head. After balancing himself, he let his other hand go, his first hand supporting his weight as he rebalanced, tucked it under himself and rolled head over heels.

After stopping himself, he carefully stood back up and reached up to the deck above him, now he had planted himself firmly on the ground. Curious, he turned around and began running his hand along the deck, reaching out with his other hand so that he didn't bump into the ice that he suspected half the boat was still embedded in.

Lo and behold, it was. Albeit rather damaged, a sizeable portion of the starboard side was still encased in solid water. Here and there the Gman could feel large chunks had been ripped out but nonetheless the majority was still frozen.

Having become sick of the abysmal light, the Gman turned around and snapped his fingers. Instantly, a flame began to burn on the ice a few metres away from him, the tips reaching up to the metal deck and reflecting around it. Surprisingly, it didn't melt, it just darkened from the carbon marks the flames were making.

Now the Gman could fully realise what he had done. All the machinery on the deck, all the secured stuff and all the cargo had either thrown itself off while the boat was tumbling down into the depths or was still stuck to the deck, hanging upside down and looking completely and irrefutably ruined.

Having inspected the fruit of his hands, the Gman turned to face the portside once more...

...and was met by the frozen, decomposing face of a horrified Resistance soldier lying in the thin layer of snow on the floor of the fissure.

For a moment, he was confused. The body was clearly identifiable as that of a rebel, since the crudely spray painted lambda symbol vividly stood out on the grimy combat webbing and padding. After he passed the short moment of confusion, he was curious. Where had the body come from?

The only scenario he deemed possible was this body had been there ever since the Resistance attack on the Borealis the year before. It certainly seemed as if that had happened, and the extent of the decay was equivalent to the length of time the Gman theorised the man had been dead for... but something didn't seem right.

He couldn't remember anyone being killed during that attack. No-one on the helicopters and none of Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Baxter's unit, everyone had escaped relatively unharmed.

So where had this body come from?

Frowning in pensive consideration, the Gman decided to think about it later. He had someone to find. Looking back at the flattened command bridge, he wondered if there was a way inside the ship through the crumpled remains of th—

His frown deepening, the Gman stretched his neck forward, trying to get a closer look at what he thought he'd just seen hanging out a crushed, empty windowframe on the bridge. Snapping a finger again, another jet of flames spewed up from the ice, burning brightly despite the frozen ground below it now steaming with boiling water.

And in a sickening instant, the Gman realised what he had seen.

Two corpses.

Both decomposed as much as the rebel on the ground.

Both of them clearly identifiable... as Dr. Isaac Kleiner and Dr. Arne Magnusson.

**White Forest, 11:48 PM**

_Darkness_.

_A thick forest of trees, and a group of silhouetted people standing all around him. He could barely make out the smile of one of them._

_The one that seemed all too familiar..._

"_Dr. Freeman..." the man whispered. "Dr. Freeman, wake up."_

Suddenly, Gordon's eyes opened, his brain taking in the blurred gloomy images around him. Someone was standing beside him... the Gman. Squinting tiredly, Gordon reached over to his right for his glasses, which were lying on a small wooden bedside table. After placing the spectacles upon his nose, he pushed them up his nose and sighed. "What time is it?"

"Eleven forty eight post meridian, Eastern European Time." The Gman answered quietly.

"Did you get him yet?"  
"I have still to locate my doppelganger," he replied, shaking his head. "No, the reason I returned here is I stumbled upon something rather distasteful, not to mention blatantly contradictive to fact."

"This thing being?"

A thin smile creased the guardian's silhouetted lips, giving Gordon a split second flashback to that night two days ago. "I think I had better show you personally."

—

"What is the meaning of this...?" Magnusson whispered, his tone a mixture of confusion, shock and mild fear as he gazed upon the ghastly, flame lit corpse of himself.

"That too was my reaction, albeit unspoken." The Gman agreed, studying the bodies curiously.

Gordon wasn't sure how he felt. Confused? Surprised? Shocked? Intrigued? Perhaps a combination of all four, maybe more? It certainly was a weird experience not only seeing the frozen, decaying body of someone who passed away mere hours ago but also that of a man still living and breathing right next to him. "What does this mean?" he asked slowly, scratching the rough bristles of his goatee.

"Surely you can deduce a reasonable answer yourself, Dr Freeman?" the Gman looked over at Gordon, cocking a wary eyebrow.

"Well, yeah, I could take a stab at it," Gordon admitted, "but I wanted to hear if you had any more info on it."

"Please, let us hear your theory." The Gman offered, smiling.

Shrugging, Gordon looked at the bodies again. "Well, I mean, obviously time travel's the culprit here. What else could be responsible for there being two Dr. Magnussons?"

Surprisingly, Magnusson had nothing to say about that.

"I agree," the Gman nodded. "It seems time has once more been causing mischief with the basic understanding of it that I have."

"So you think you can explain it, if only you understood time better?"

"Exactly, and unfortunately we have no real way of studying the way time works other than through the very limited hands-on experience the Fissionist Faction has had."

"Hang on, you've told me before that time is basically a linear progression that splits itself into separate 'timelines' should something in the past be altered."

"That is how we understand it."

"Right. OK, so if that's the case, there shouldn't be two of someone in any given timeline unless they've come over from another, and the only way to go to another timeline is to create on by changing the past."

"Again, your explanation is stable, assuming that the theory you have based it on, namely ours, is indeed correct."

"And you don't think it is?"

"What else explains the existence of these corpses?"

"I guess you're right..." Gordon agreed, raising his hands in submission. "So what were your ideas?"

The Gman smiled. "Has it occurred to you that Corporal Shephard shouldn't be alive?"

Gordon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Take into consideration that this is not our original timeline, Dr. Freeman," the Gman reminded him. "Where we are from, Corporal Shephard is lying dead in the snow at Inferno Abyss. In this timeline, Corporal Shephard was killed the same way, but the difference being he was resurrected by the Phyx and then killed again in the Rostock nuclear blast. So, why is Corporal Shephard alive again?"

"Shephard's alive again?" Gordon frowned.

The Gman mirrored Gordon's expression. "Of course he is," he cocked his head slightly. "Were you not aware of this matter?"

"Why would I be?" Gordon demanded. "It's not like I've been here long enough to come across him."

"But surely, if my doppelganger was assisting him, he would have followed you to Belarus?"

Gordon shrugged. "Maybe he did. I didn't see him though."

The Gman nodded slowly. "Well, Corporal Shephard is alive... and like these two corpses, he shouldn't exist."

"And you think this is somehow related to time travel?" Dr. Magnusson asked again.

"I can see no other possible explanation." The Gman replied.

Gordon scratched his goatee. "Alright, so... where could these bodies have come from?"

"Perhaps the timeline you two are from?" Magnusson suggested, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"That would give satisfactory explanation as to the level of decomposition these bodies have undergone." The Gman noted, watching the corpses.

"But why would someone bring dead bodies from another time?" Gordon asked. "What's the point?"

The Gman closed his eyes. "It's entirely possible there was no substantial motivation to do this. Maybe somebody is simply trying to distract us with the contradictive presence of these bodies."

"Yeah, but who would do that?" Gordon pressed. "And for what reason?"

"Obviously, my doppelganger would be the most probable suspect. After all, I have information concerning his whereabouts being here, at the Borealis."

Gordon's eyes widened, unsure he had heard the Gman correctly. "_This _is the Borealis? What the hell happened?"

The Gman paused. "Ah, yes. I dislodged it from its position in the wall of this crevasse. I was attempting to locate my doppelganger."

"By pulling a boat out of the ice?" Dr. Magnusson inquired curiously.

"This matter is irrelevant," the Gman reminded the two, trying to get back on topic. "What matters is that the corpses are here, at the Borealis, and so is my doppelganger."

"And how did your doppelganger get them here?"

The Gman stopped. Slowly, his eyes snapped over to Gordon's cocky grin. "Impossible." He realised. "The only way to do such a thing would be through time travel, and not only is it impossible to get to Sleet Rock from Earth through any means other than the Fissionist Council Chambers but all the Xen crystals of potential potency to attain temporal shifting have already been used." The Gman turned his head to Gordon, focusing directly on him. "I have no idea how they got here."

Gordon smiled. "I do."

Curious, the Gman frowned slightly. "Please explain."

"Alright, your understanding of time is that it's a linear progression of events and all that, correct?"

"Yes."

"And the only explanation you can think of is that you were wrong about that, right?"

"Yes."

"So, my theory is that time operates in a way that _causes _these unexplainable duplicate people. Or corpses, in this case."

"Elaborate."

"Well, I dunno, maybe changing the past doesn't actually..." Gordon stopped. "Hang on... wait a second! Gman, do you remember what you told me back when you finally decided to reveal yourself to everyone at White Forest, back in the other timeline? After we got back from Sweden?"

The Gman nodded slowly. "What about it?"

"You told us that the ALAI had to be activated _so that the Combine would dismiss Earth as uninhabitable!_"

"And why are you telling me this?"

"What did I ask you to do when the Fissionists green-lighted my request to change the past?"

"You asked me to collect a sample of dark energy from the Citadel Dark Energy Reactor as it collapsed, just before I returned you to stasis, and to destroy GLaDOS and the woman with her in 2014, so that neither Ms. Vance nor Mr. Calhoun would die."

Gordon smiled.

The Gman, failing to understand his meaning, continued frowning.

Then his eyes widened. "GLaDOS was the creator of the ALAI..."

"Exactly." Gordon agreed. "And because you destroyed her, the ALAI ceased to exist in this timeline."

"And thus, the automatic warning that they sent across the universe upon their activation never happened..." the Gman added in disbelief. "I cannot believe I missed something this critical."

"I only just realised it," Gordon admitted.

"Hang on," Dr. Magnusson frowned. "If you thought the Combine received this... _warning_, or whatever it is, then why were you not suspicious upon the arrival of the Phyx?"

Gordon and the Gman stopped. "He's right... I never thought about that." Gordon agreed.

"You have ample excuse," the Gman answered. "After all, you were dead when they arrived. I, on the other hand, should have noticed immediately."

"So why does all of this matter then?" Magnusson asked. "If this warning did not go out, then there would be nothing stopping the Phyx from coming here as they did, thus there is no problem."

"But there is..." Gordon reminded Dr. Magnusson. "The Swedish general told me, when the Phyx came to Inferno Abyss... they told him that they had received a signal from Sweden, a warning that an artificial intelligence of some sort had been activated and was proceeding to destroy all life on Earth."

"B-but that signal—"

"It can't have been sent out, I know."

Silence.

"What do you think is the explanation?" the Gman asked quietly.

Gordon looked over at the Gman. "There are no multiple timelines. There is _one _timeline that alters itself when the past is changed... but not entirely."

"Not entirely?"

"Some things are retained from before the past was changed," Gordon continued. "OK, the ALAI for example. You destroyed their creator, Gman, before they were created, and thus their warning signal couldn't have existed. But it did. So what I'm suggesting happened is time didn't split. It changed itself, but not completely. It erased the existence of the ALAI, but their signal still went out somehow."

"That is ridiculous," the Gman shook his head.

"Which is _exactly_ why you didn't think it was how time operates." Gordon pointed out. "Because it was ridiculous, the whole concept of time retaining some things from the past. But it makes sense, when these contradictions arise: there are two Corporal Shephards, there are two Dr. Kleiners and there are two Dr. Magnussons."

"Why?"

"Remember what happened in the time we're from? White Forest was destroyed by the Combine. Everyone was _killed_, including both Dr. Kleiner and Dr. Magnusson."

"Ah!" the Gman nodded. "And if time truly operates as you theorise, that would explain how these bodies are here!"

"Time doesn't split when the past is changed..." Gordon muttered. "It stays as a single linear progression that compensates for changes by retaining some things from both versions of time."

"Exactly right." The Gman's doppelganger agreed, casually placing a hand on Dr. Magnusson's shoulder. "Congratulations, Dr. Freeman. Such a pity a mind as vast as yours must now go to waste."


	24. Twenty Three: Confrontation

**-=Chapter Twenty Three: Confrontation=-**

It happened all too quickly.

In a split second, the Gman had thrust an open palm at his twin, hitting him with some sort of invisible telekinetic force. At the exact same time, his doppelganger had grabbed Dr. Magnusson and pulled him in the way of the blast. Both the elderly scientist and the rogue guardian were thrown backwards, crashing into what remained of the command bridge. Fortunately, Magnusson was cushioned by the Gman's duplicate, who received the brunt of the damage.

Shaken by this attack, the doppelganger released Dr. Magnusson, who fell in a heap to the light snow on the ground.

Gordon couldn't do anything. He hadn't brought any weapons, he'd only brought his suit so he wouldn't freeze. And now, here he was, in the middle of a supernatural brawl between two universal guardians.

The Gman, having spotted Magnusson on the ground, charged at his twin and slammed into him with the strength of a train, tearing the crumpled metal wall behind him and sending both of them crashing into the roof of the destroyed bridge, which was now acting as the floor.

Seeing an opportunity, Gordon ran toward Magnusson.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Gman's duplicate noticed Gordon running. With a furious growl, the Gman was thrown off of his twin as he clambered to his feet and dived at Gordon.

With only a millisecond to react, Gordon simply threw himself to the ground beside Magnusson as the doppelganger flew overhead, crashing into the ground a few metres behind Gordon. Scrambling to his feet, Gordon grabbed Dr. Magnusson's arm and hurriedly tried to drag him out of the way as the Gman's twin got to his feet. Just as the duplicate was getting to his feet he spotted Gordon pulling the limp scientist through the snow.

At that moment, the 'real' Gman came out of nowhere and slammed a clenched fist into his crouching doppelganger's jaw. With a sickening crack and a thin stream of warm blood that sprayed all over the snow, the twin's jawbone shattered inside his mouth. In the eerie light of the Gman's fires, his disfigured face looked even worse.

Having dragged him away from the fray, Gordon checked Magnusson. He was conscious, but only just. His eyes were wide open, and his chest was heaving up and down incredibly fast — not surprising, given the situation.

Unsure what to do now, Gordon looked back up at the duelling guardians. It wasn't pretty, to put it bluntly. Blood was splattering the ground all around them, staining their tailored blue suits as they traded blow after blow in a rather unceremonious manner. It was more in the style of a barfight than a gracious duel.

Looking around the dimly lit enclosure they were stuck in, Gordon spotted a rotting corpse. It wasn't anyone he recognised, but it was undeniably clear that it was wearing the dirty combat fatigues that the Romanian Resistance proudly clad upon themselves, complete with the spray-painted lambda symbol that had somehow been inherited all the way from Black Mesa.

_This guy... he'd died at White Forest. _

Subconsciously, Gordon looked up at the frozen corpses of Magnusson and Kleiner. _If I assume he died at the same time as they did... then that means he died the day before the Combine attacked._

Gordon could remember it as if it had been yesterday. Alyx and Barney brutally murdered, Magnusson desperately contacting him and reporting White Forest was under attack, his blatant dismissal on account of his uncontrollable swirl of emotions... and the chance to change it all.

So he had changed it all. He erased any reason for Alyx and Barney to go to Aperture Science and any way they could be killed by GLaDOS, and thus the joint Romanian-Serbian Combine force delayed their attack until early the next day.

If time truly did replicate some scenarios so as to compensate for the different pasts, then these bodies would have just appeared on the ground, out of nowhere, at the same time that they were killed in the original version of the past.

Gordon frowned, thinking about that. _Hang on... so if someone was killed at 4:00 in the original version of events, then their body would appear in the exact same spot, out of nowhere, at 4:00 in the altered version of events?_

The Gman was right, it certainly was ridiculous. Duplicate sets of bodies appearing where they died, at the exact time they di—

Gordon's eyes widened. _No way._

And at that moment, he and Magnusson were whisked away from the freezing cold underneath the capsized Borealis, lying at the bottom of the giant crevasse in Northern Sweden.

**Fissionist Council Chambers, 11:59 PM**

"We apologise for the unforgivable delay," the First Member bowed his head in remorse. "But Member Eight was not responding to our attempts at communication with him. Eventually, we were forced to evacuate you without his permission."

"Why did you have to ask _permission_?" Magnusson blurted, his whole body shaking. Gordon wasn't sure what was more influential over Magnusson, the cold he'd just been abused by or the sudden and violent attack by the Gman's twin.

"A Member is responsible for the instantaneous spatial relocation of any given entity they desire to transport," the First Member explained to the shaken doctor in a manner that seemed much akin to recital, "and therefore we had no business removing you from a place that we did not take you to."

Gordon frowned. "The Gman had no trouble stopping time and taking me places before."

"That is because you were under contract with him, thus you were bound to whatever tasks he required completed." The First Member added.

"Right."

"So what happens now?" Dr. Magnusson asked quietly, looking up at the glowing Fissionists above him.

"Now, we return you to your original locations and allow you to continue with whatever occupation you had undertaken prior to your teleportation."

"So I go back to bed?" Gordon muttered.

"Exactly."

"Well, I'd be glad to oblige..." Magnusson began, before Gordon raised an interrupting hand. "Just a moment." He requested, looking up at the Fissionists and lowering his hand. "I wonder... could you possibly take me to the carpark of Aperture Laboratories in Cleveland, Ohio?"

"Whatever for, Dr. Freeman?"

Gordon smiled. "I've got a feeling they'll be some people I need to see there."

**Aperture Laboratories, Cleveland, Ohio, 12:01 AM**

It was the same as he remembered it.

The giant hole in the middle, with chunks of bitumen and tattered metal strewn all around its crater. What was different about this, though, was the amount of metal. None of those large, white painted chunks or pieces wired with dull LEDs, just scrap metal you'd find making up the roofs of most industrial buildings.

_Those white pieces must have come to existence because of GLaDOS... _Gordon guessed silently, scanning the carpark with watchful eyes, _and since the Gman destroyed her they're no longer here... perhaps they were part of her original form?_

The carpark was so quiet and peaceful, so distant from the commotion of his everyday life as the hero of the Resistance. But he wasn't here to dwell on the atmosphere, he was here to find his friends.

There was a Hunter-Chopper in the carpark, landed beside the gaping hole. It was in the exact same location as it had been over a year ago, despite the fact that it never actually came here in the succession of events Gordon had ordered be created.

_Time compensating for past alteration..._

He couldn't remember its callsign. It was one of the three they Resistance had found and sent to help with the attack on the Borealis. All of them had been destroyed, including the Russian Mil-Mi8 Alyx had fixed up. Two of them had been hit by the nuke in Rostock, the Gman had said. The other two had gone down at the Dnieper River in Ukraine.

_At least now I've got a chopper to fly to Geneva._

He'd have to fly it back to Romania though, to pick up the general in the morning. Shit, he'd get no more sleep tonight if he did that, it'd be ten in the morning by the time he got back to White Forest. _Maybe I won't fly it back then._

Walking over to the Hunter Chopper, Gordon spotted something a few metres away from the back of the aircraft.

Two skeletons.

His eyes widening, Gordon wasted no time in rushing over to the bodies and kneeling down beside them. Good Lord, it was them.

Alyx and Barney.

Nothing was left of them, save for their bones, their teeth and their clothes. Their flesh had completely decomposed, making them completely unrecognisable as who they really were apart from their clothing.

For a moment, Gordon wondered why the bodies in Sweden hadn't been in the same state. After all, there was perhaps one or two hours between the deaths of Alyx and Barney and the deaths of Kleiner and Magnusson. But he quickly remembered that their bodies were frozen, the cells would have become inert and ceased decomposition within twenty four hours in the cold.

It was so strange, looking at them like this. Their bodies were indistinguishable from each other, only separable by the Combine fatigues on one of them and the crudely repaired hooded jacket and Black Mesa shirt on the other.

Suddenly, it slammed into him in full force: these were his two best friends, the laid back fun-loving security guard Barney Calhoun and the strong minded, determined and beautiful Alyx Vance.

Pursing his lips, Gordon brought a gloved hand to his mouth, closing his eyes tightly. _Could I raise them? _He thought, fighting back the tears he could feel were coming. _Do I _want _to raise them?_

Of course he wanted to raise them, but... they were dead now. They were in paradise, and he was going to join them sometime soon, he was certain.

On the other hand, they would never witness the peace he had manufactured between the Combine and the human race. They would never see the end to all the fighting that they had had to withstand for the last twenty years of their lives. Alyx had grown up not even knowing a time before the Combine, as she'd only been two years old when the Black Mesa Incident had occurred.

What kind of life was that for a person to live?

A single tear dropped from his eye.

_I wish you were here, Alyx... I wish you could see everything that's happening here._

Getting back to his feet, Gordon lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes, shaking his head as he readjusted his large-rimmed spectacles and slowly walked back toward the Hunter-Chopper. Looking to the night sky, he nodded.

And he disappeared, leaving Alyx and Barney to rest in eternal peace.

**Borealis, 12:06 AM**

He'd disappeared.

One minute he'd been diving away from a vicious blow, and the next he'd been absorbed into the ether. The Gman didn't know how it had happened, because the Fissionists had assured him that the instant his doppelganger revealed himself they'd have him located, and that meant he wouldn't be able to hide himself or teleport at all.

So how had he esca—

_Crack!_

A blow to the head, like a bowling ball to a set of pins, slammed into the Gman. Feeling his bones painfully move around inside his head, the Gman spun to face his attacker and tried to grab him, to no avail. His twin quickly sidestepped the expected attack and brought his knee up into the Gman's lower abdomen, grabbing his shoulders and thrusting his head down into his knee.

After the dizzying collision, the Gman pulled himself away from his duplicate and practically windmilled backwards, trying to regain his balance as he stumbled away from his advancing twin. Regaining his composure, the Gman spat out a thick sting of blood and charged, head first, at his doppelganger.

Trying to avoid the attack, his twin simply moved to the left, but instantly regretted it as the Gman grabbed his right arm — having expected his attempts to dodge — and swung him around, throwing him to the ground as the Gman jumped at him, bodyslamming him with a satisfactory crunch.

His entire weight now on his duplicate, the Gman proceeded to repeatedly slam his head into the thin layer of snow on the ground, little flecks of blood splattering out from under him each time his head hit the ground, a muffled thump confirming contact each and every time.

Eventually, his twin gathered the energy to thrown the Gman off of him and stand up, his face now a bloody mess of broken bones, slit skin and bruises. Most disturbingly of all, two of his upper ribs were sticking out of his chest at sickening angles, the bone slick with blood and clear liquid that glistened in the firelight.

Unperturbed by this horrific sight, the Gman continued his assault. Stepping just out of arm's reach of his doppelganger, he kept his hands ready just by his side as he tried circling his duplicate, who eagerly followed his steps. After a sudden feint to the left, the Gman then lashed out with his right leg in an attempt to swipe his opponent's feet out from under him. Unfortunately, his twin caught on just as he overbalanced but with just enough time to grab the Gman's leg and pull him down on top of him, only this time his doppelganger grabbed the Gman's head and that meant he was in control of where that head went...

...which resulted in eye impalement by one of his dislodged ribs.

A thick jet of crimson plasma squirted out of the Gman's eyesocket, the quivering bone sprayed with fresh blood. Balancing himself with his free hand, the Gman's twin brought one of his knees up into the Gman's stomach, kicking the wounded guardian off of him with a rough blow. Partially blinded by the attack, the Gman overbalanced as he tried to regain his footing in the snow and fell over backwards once more, giving his duplicate time to get to his feet and prepare once more.

Finally getting to his feet, the Gman hastily wiped the back of his hand across his face, just below his left eyesocket. Sticky red blood smudged all across both his hand and his cheek, including a small jelly-like glob of white sclera. Making this realisation with his only remaining eye, the Gman's mouth curled up into a vengeful grimace as he looked up at his doppelgager, who merely offered a disfigured smile of contempt in reply. "That wasn't exactly an optimal decision," the Gman tutted, shaking his head slightly as he replicated his duplicate's expression.

Ignoring his borderline casual remark, his twin simply charged at him, turning on his side so that one of his dislodged ribs was pointed directly at the Gman. A split second before receiving a bony stake to the heart, the Gman ducked down so that his head was in line with his doppelganger, raised his arm in the same way one would to block an attack and swiftly brought it into his duplicate's legs, causing them to bend backwards and out from underneath him.

As anyone would reasonably assume, this would mean his twin was going to crash into the ground. The one problem was that the Gman was between his chest and contact with the snowy ground. Fortunately, the Gman was entirely aware of this and proceeded to raise his other arm up and sock his duplicate in the face before rolling over backwards as his doppelganger flipped over in midair and crashed into the ground on his back.

Taking the brief opening now presented to him, the Gman got to his feet. Walking over to his twin, the Gman pressed a heavy foot against his stomach and calmly grabbed both ribs sticking out of his twin's chest, cleanly snapped them off, twirled them around in his hands and slammed them down into his doppelganger's eyes.

Needless to say, there was a rather generous serving of blood that came complementary with this.

Content with what he'd accomplished, the Gman removed his foot from his incapacitated twin's stomach. "Word of advice," the Gman whispered. "Try to get back inside. Awfully chilly out here."

And with that, he turned on his heels and walked off, snapping his fingers as he went. Both of his crackling fires went out in a second, leaving his blinded duplicate to lie in the cold.

**White Forest, 12:19 AM**

Everyone was asleep, or at least everyone had retreated to their quarters. The hallways were entirely devoid of life, utterly silent in the tranquillity of the Romanian winter night.

Then, there was sound.

Light footsteps on concrete...

The creaking of a door as it opened and closed...

And silence once more.

Locking the door behind him, the Gman walked through the main section of Dr. Taylor's operating area, over to the small office she had behind somewhat dirty windows.

Staring into one of the translucent sheets of glass, the Gman leaned in close to examine the extent of his injuries. It wasn't very good. He could see the dark, crimson stained cavity that had once been the location of his left eye. Now it was just a hole surrounded by smeared blood, torn skin and muscle.

Pursing his lips, the Gman turned around and looked for a sink, trying to find somewhere he could wash out his eye, not to mention finally try and clean up the bullet wound in the side of his head.

Having no success in the main room, the Gman then made his way into the curtain obscured area beside Dr. Taylor's office, where he recalled taking Dr. Kleiner's body before he was buried. After brushing the curtain aside, the Gman smiled at his discovery of both a sink and a mirror.

Making his way over, he proceeded to plug up the drain and turn on the tap, filling the sink to about half full. Turning the squeaky valve back off, he dipped a few fingers into the refreshingly cool liquid and began to clean around his eye.

Each time he dipped his hand back into the sink, a faint cloud of red washed off. By the time he'd cleaned out his eyesocket entirely, the water looked as if someone had squeezed a few drops of strong red food colouring into it.

Looking into the water, the Gman could see small bits of sclera and muscle floating in the water. Hesitating, he reached in and pulled out the plug. He could deal with the bullet later. Besides, Dr. Taylor would probably be able to clean it up much better.

Pushing the curtain aside once more, the Gman headed for the door, intent on finding somewhere to rest. It wasn't that he needed to sleep, because he had enough energy to keep him going for about a year without resting once. No, it was that he _wanted _to sleep, to have a few short hours of peace before he had to return to his duty.

And yes, maybe he did need it as well.

* * *

**Alright, I'm sorry that this story is so schizophrenic. Nobody's complained to me about anything, but I'm sure some people are a little bit put off by how dodgy and inconsistent the past few chapters have been. If you're reading this wondering what the hell I'm talking about, then it's just me being paranoid about the quality of my work, especially a sequel with the high ambitions I've set up. **

**But in all honesty, I think that I need to do what I did with Episode 3. Fix everything up, revise things and make it all better because, when you strip everything down to the basics, this is just the first draft. I'm going to finish it as is, though, but there are some little plot issues that are nagging at me that I don't think I'm doing very well at combing out. Hopefully I haven't alienated any readers recently because of all this retardedness.  
**

**On the upside, I don't think I've lost my knack for crazy action scenes. Hope there was enough in this chapter to satisfy you until next time, because next chapter will have guns and explosions. And the conclusion, however the little problems in the earlier chapters have been irritating me, should be even better than Episode 3, both as a explosion-fest and as a knot to tie up the plot and the entire series (no more doing Valve's job after this, I promise).  
**


	25. Twenty Four: Pursuance

**-=Chapter Twenty Four: Pursuance=-**

**White Forest, 8:40 AM**

"Well, I wasn't expecting this." The general admitted, hands firmly on his hips as he scanned the large Hunter-Chopper perched inside what remained of the hangar. "Where'd it come from?"

"Brought it over from Aperture Laboratories last night," Gordon explained, "Fissionists took both it and I all the way from Cleveland in a nanosecond."

"That's in North America, isn't it?" the general turned up his nose. "The place is completely desolate, far as I know. You wouldn't believe how many portal storms were ripping it up when we first got here."

Gordon cocked an incredulous eyebrow. "Really? It was calm enough both times I was there."  
"'Course it was. Haven't you noticed there haven't been portal storms since you closed off our ticket home?" the general asked, looking over at Gordon, "And before that, there hadn't been any since we erected the Citadels."

"What difference do they make?"

Snorting at his ignorance, the general explained. "Hell of a lot more than you'd think: dark energy reactors keep the atmospheric levels of exotic matter that causes the portal storms under control."

"So why haven't they started up again around here, since we destroyed the Citadel?"

"All of them work together to keep it balanced. Although," the general added, chuckling quietly to himself, "your little mischief did mess up the scale for a little while. That's why the superportal wasn't suppressed by the other Citadels." Pausing momentarily, the general huffed. "It's thanks to you that superportal didn't get sucked up the instant it was created."  
Gordon smiled. "You should be thankful."

"Doesn't count," the general waved his hand dismissively, "you still ultimately closed it off."

"And blew up your leaders."

"_That's _one of the many reasons the Advisors are going crazy shit on your ass, buddy." The general jabbed a finger at his physicist friend.

"Don't blame me," Gordon raised his hands defensively. "I call them like I see them, alright? You guys didn't make much of a first impression."

"True," the general agreed. "I never said we were innocent. If anything, we're even worse."

"Why's that?"

"Come on, Freeman," the general rolled his eyes, the expression hid behind his snow-camo mask, "you said it yourself. Problem is, we didn't think we were doing anything wrong, being the ignorant bastards we are. You guys just came off as..."

"...feral?"

"..._uncooperative._" the general finished. "But yeah."

Gordon laughed. "Whatever, you ready to go?"

The general nodded. "Your Gman friend coming with us?"

Gordon frowned, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure he was..." he muttered, looking back at the door. "Haven't seen him at all this morning. You seen him?"

The general shook his head. "Not a peep."

"Hmm..." Gordon scratched his chin. "Wait here, I'm going to go check."

—

"Seen him this morning?" Gordon asked, watching as Magnusson sipped the last of his black java.

"Sorry, Freeman," Magnusson shrugged, crumpling the cup in his hands. "Haven't seen him since last night."

Magnusson turned in his chair, tossing the cup at a dented metal waste bucket by the door. The cup bounced off the rim, onto the floor in front of the door. Magnusson's cocky smile was immediately replaced by an irritated frown. Gordon allowed himself the pleasure of a tiny smile. "I saw that," Magnusson warned, cocking an eyebrow as a warning. Gordon was pretty sure he was joking around.

Just then, the door opened, pushing the crushed ball of polystyrene across the old linoleum floor as the Gman stepped through. "Ah, Dr. Freeman, Dr. Magnusson," he greeted Gordon warmly, looking at the two scientists, "I apologise for my delay..."

"Were you perhaps looking for that eyepatch?" Dr. Magnusson asked slowly, staring at the crude shred of fabric tied around the Gman's head.

"Indeed I was," the Gman smiled, apparently oblivious to Magnusson's distaste. "Unfortunately, the little incident with my doppelganger was not resolved as fluently as I would have hoped."

Gordon's eyes widened. "Shit, what happened?"

"Merely a flesh wound, Dr. Freeman," the Gman reassured him.

"Tell us."

Somewhat reluctantly, the Gman raised his hand to the patch of material over his eye and lifted. As he'd expected, he immediately got looks of total revulsion back. "Son of a bitch, Gman," Gordon hissed, "and you're acting like it was nothing?"

"Please, do not make a big deal of the matter."

Groaning, Gordon rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. "Alright..."

"Dr. Freeman, I promise that it shall in no way prove detrimental to my performance. Dr. Taylor finished with me not five minutes ago."

The two former colleagues exchanged tentative glances. "Surgery?"

"Absolutely."

"And you just got up and left?"

"My body requires no recompense from whatever effect such procedures would have on me."

"So, what, you can just keep going, even after surgery?"

"Believe me, surgery is hardly comparable to having a heavy calibre bullet in your brain for three quarters of a day."

Gordon clicked his tongue, giving the Gman a thumbs up. "Touché, my friend. Not that I would know what that's like, of course."

"I was confident that was the case." The Gman agreed. He looked over at Magnusson, nodding politely. "Until we meet again, Dr. Magnusson."

Magnusson nodded in reply. "Likewise, Gman."

The Gman turned back to Gordon. "Is our Overwatch friend ready?"

"He's waiting in the hangar," Gordon affirmed, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the door. "Better head out."

"Agreed." The Gman nodded.

"Good luck, Freeman." Dr. Magnusson added.

Gordon saluted casually, heading for the door. "See you later, Dr. Magnusson."

—

"You know how to pilot this aircraft?" the general asked, his surprise clear as crystal in his tone.

"Uh... look, let's just say if the autopilot failed I'd be in a little trouble. Just leave it at that." Gordon muttered, doing some pre-flight preparations.

"You seem to know what you're doing." The general noted.

Gordon snorted. "Oh, sure, I know how to get it off the ground. Bit different from actually flying the damn thing."

"Obviously."

"Am I correct in saying that you received no professional training in aviation before the Black Mesa Incident?" the Gman asked from the cabin.

"Spot on, Gman." Gordon replied, inputting some final coordinates. "And I haven't had any since."

"Apart from your own personal experience?"

"I taught myself what little I know, yeah."

"Hmm..." the Gman shrugged. "I'm glad _I_ piloted this Hunter-Chopper to Aperture Laboratories."

Gordon, catching onto the Gman's meaning, slowly turned his head to the guardian, frowning. The Gman raised an eyebrow curiously, but said nothing. Gordon shook his head, smiling, and turned back to the console. "Alright, let's get this bird in the air."

**Palace of Nations, 9:07 AM**

"This information is... _evidential, _yes?" Dr. Breen asked quietly, looking up from the document he'd just been handed.

The French general nodded. "The source is trustworthy."

Pursing his lips, Dr. Breen passed the document back.

"We could take the optimistic approach," the general suggested. "Perhaps his intentions are not in opposition."

Unfortunately, I cannot share your enthusiasm..." Dr. Breen sighed, rubbing the rim of his eye. "Remember, I'm missing an arm because of him."

"Regardless, sir," the general insisted, "perhaps he too has accepted that he was misled through his lack of understanding, as we were."

Dr. Breen clasped his hands together. "I worked with him but a short while, and even still I found he possessed certain praiseworthy traits... determination being one of them. I fear that he's coming to Geneva... and he's not going to be negotiating peace."

The French general frowned behind his mask. "You describe him as if he is some kind of brute."

Dr. Breen laughed nervously. "My dear general, I wish that were the case. Then we would have no trouble dealing with him."

**Airspace above Geneva, 10:56 AM**

"Have you been able to get in contact with them yet?" Gordon asked over the radio, looking out the cockpit's glass windows at the large, strangely shaped building far below.

"_No luck so far, I'm afraid," _the radio operator admitted. "_Magnusson's been busting his balls, I can tell you._"

"I can imagine," Gordon murmured.

"_We've got nothing to go on,_" the radio operator continued. "_The frequencies our Swede comrade gave us jammed almost immediately._ _What's your ETA, by the way?_"

Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Uh, ten seconds?"

"_Ah, hell,_" the radio operator cursed. "_Look, just see if you can get yourselves a chat with the general._"

"Are you certain the Combine don't know I'm alive?"

"_Dr. Freeman, you've been alive like three days. Besides, that French general called you 'the late Dr. Gordon Freeman' like five times. If he knew you were alive, he'd have directed that whole speech at _you_."_

"Right..." Gordon muttered. "Lovely. That complicates things."

"_Hey, there's nothing we could do that we already haven't done._"

"It's not your fault," Gordon explained. "I'm going to make peace, it's just not going to be as clear cut as I thought."

"_Still, if they know that you're here then wouldn't they assume you want to make peace?"_

"Not necessarily." Gordon answered. "They might think I want to kill the general to send a message or something equally asinine."

"_I doubt it._"

"Yeah, and I'm prepared for it."

The radio operator sighed. _"Sorry, Dr. Freeman. Good luck. Out."_

Gordon looked down at the Palace of Nations again. "Are we ready?"

"Been ready for the past two hours, Gordon." The general replied.

Nodding, Gordon started the descent toward the ground, silently praying that nothing would go wrong.

—

The chopper landed in the middle of the courtyard out the front, amid a pleasantly green flurry of nature. Before either the twin turbines or the rotary blade had come to a stop, twelve guards had already taken position around the aircraft, two of them holding what looked like redesigned Javelin missile launchers with the unique mechanical aesthetic of Combine technology.

Gordon looked through the cockpit windows, studying their weapons. "These windows are tinted on the outside, aren't they?"

"Don't confuse that with opacity," the general warned. "They can probably still see us."

"Right," Gordon nodded, getting from his seat and heading into the cabin, where he found the Gman waiting by the door. "Think everything's going to go OK?" Gordon whispered.

"Judging by your conviction that the Combine truly is genuine, I'd say that misinterpretation on our part is nigh impossible."

"Meaning what?" Gordon muttered, walking over to the cabin doors.

"Simply put, I don't believe that you'll make a bad impression."

Gordon took a deep breath. "This isn't a job interview."

The Gman chuckled. "I'm glad you understand that. It's so much more important than something as trivial as that."

Turning his head to the Gman, Gordon gave him a sarcastic look. "You're a legend when it comes to encouragement, you know that?"

"I try, Dr. Freeman."

Gordon snorted, placing both his hands on the double doors. "I don't doubt it."

And with that, he swung the doors wide.

"_Freeze!_"

Sure, it wasn't exactly the reception he'd been expecting, but in retrospect he wasn't really sure what else they could have done other than shove guns in their face. After a moment, however, the soldiers realised who they were looking at and immediately backed away, keeping their guns trained even closer than ever.

Gordon raised his hands. "Morning, gentlemen." He greeted the soldiers calmly, smiling.

The soldiers scanned the two others with him, their shock doubling at the sight of the Swedish general to Gordon's right and their shock multiplying a hundred fold at the sight of the Gman, who simply watched the soldiers with a face displaying no undermining emotions.

About five seconds after Gordon had spoken, the Gman stepped from the cabin of the Hunter-Chopper onto the soft grass of the courtyard. None of the soldiers moved. "Pardon our unannounced intrusion," he began, "but we would appreciate it if we could have an audience with your superior, Soldier 46859, Five Star General of the French Overwatch."

One of the soldiers nodded at Freeman and the general. "Check them for weapons."

The two closest soldiers lowered their guns, stepping toward the scientist and the general. Submitting themselves to the search, the two were patted down for weapons before the soldiers stepped back and took up their positions again. "All clear, sir."

"What about Freeman's suit?" the soldier, obviously the ranking officer of the unit, objected.

"Sir, if he tries anything, we put a bullet in his brain, alright?"

Gordon frowned. "I thought you guys wanted to make peace."

"Yeah, well, you haven't exactly been our best friend this past year, Freeman." The officer retorted. "We've got a right to be cautious."

Gordon waved his hands defensively. "I'm just saying."

"Besides, I thought you were dead."

"I thought you knew that the Phyx defected to the Resistance."

The soldier went quiet. "Alright, come with us."

Not wanting to cause any trouble, all three of them obliged without issue. The two soldiers armed with rocket launchers holstered their weapons in favour of two USP Match handguns. Now carrying their sidearms, the two of them took up positions behind Gordon and the Swedish general, keeping their guns trained on their backs.

"It's just a precaution," the officer continued, walking alongside Gordon. "You've got to understand how serious this cause is to us."

"I don't see why you think I'd want to go against it," Gordon admitted.

The Gman seemed intrigued by the building, his eyes scanning it end to end, over and over. "Correct me if I am wrong, but is this not the installation refurbished to be utilised as a secondary gathering place for the Advisors?"

Not wanting to be cocky with someone who had the power to break his neck in a millisecond, the officer nodded. "That's why we took it over. Every single Advisor from across the globe is either here or rotting somewhere, completely forgotten."

"This is where I was given the orders to assassinate you, along with the other two generals..." the Swedish general told Gordon quietly.

Gordon just looked at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

The general shrugged, "Interesting bit of trivi—"

_Crack!_

The general's mask exploded, chips of white, shell-like substance blasting outwards from a large red bullet wound now occupying the space just below his right eye. A thin stream of blood squirted forcefully out from the hole, splattering on the back of two soldiers in front of him. The general's head snapped back, spraying the blood all over the soldier to his right and across the old asphalt road the unit was walking on. Lifelessly, his body collapsed, falling to the ground and landing with a dull thump as the ranking officer started yelling orders and the unit bolted, pulling Freeman along with them.

Frantically trying to find who the assailant was, Gordon's eyes settled on something, directly above them as he was rushed up the stairs leading to a raised section of the building outside the portico, on the edge of the flat stone roof of the building.

A small, brown coloured lump.

And instantly, his eyes widened. _It's the same sniper who was at the Belarusian refuelling station... the one on the _Dzyarzhynskaya Hara...

But this time, Gordon was close enough to make out a small detail he hadn't seen the last time he'd encountered the attacker.

Two large green lenses on the brown lump, which he could now make out as a gasmask...

Gordon's wide eyes instantly thinned to contemptuous slits. _Shephard._

A moment later, the corporal disappeared from his sight as he was shunted under the white portico of the Palace, the roof cutting off his view. Without even stopping, the soldiers continued to haul him and the Gman through one of the many double doors lining the painted concrete wall, into a large and extremely nice looking hall of some sort. Having completed that, half the unit immediately charged back outside, hoisting their rifles and thundering around the corner and out of sight.

As the doors closed, Gordon could hear muffled gunshots as the remainder of the unit continued to direct both he and the Gman through the hall. Gordon wasn't sure if they were trying to get them to the French general or some form of imprisonment to have their intentions processed. Though, Gordon was pretty sure the assassination that just occurred was going to be pretty damn good conviction that they weren't trying to kill anyone. Then again, the Combine wouldn't know any of Shephard's history... expect perhaps the men at Inferno Abyss.

Realising the implications of that thought, Gordon swore incessantly in his mind. _Did Shephard target the Swedish general intentionally? So that no one could testify that he had a vengeance to settle with Gordon?_

Silently, Gordon reminded himself that this Shephard was never resurrected. The one who _was _resurrected at Inferno Abyss was incinerated in the Rostock nuking. _This _Shephard, if his completely speculative theory was right, knew nothing beyond the Black Mesa Incident.

_So why is he so desperate to kill me?_

Surely, Shephard was going too far with the tenacity he was showing in his attempts to kill Gordon. How many Marines had Gordon killed that Shephard had even known? Was it just some kind of disgrace to have fellow soldiers taken out by a scientist? Besides, Gordon wasn't at fault. He'd been a perfectly normal American citizen just going to work one day, and ended up with blood on his suit, sweat on his brow and a German submachine gun in his hands.

He hadn't even go postal or anything as dramatic as that, he was just running for the Marine Corps that was killing his colleagues completely without reason.

Gordon didn't hold a grudge against Shephard for killing innocent men at his work, so why did Shephard want Gordon dead for killing maybe twenty Marines completely out of self-defence?

It was utterly irrational. Gordon didn't think you needed a doctorate to know that, but if Shephard represent the mainstream intelligence of the average citizen then perhaps he'd been wrong...

His thoughts interrupted suddenly by the guard unit coming to an abrupt halt, Gordon realised they were already standing outside a large, very beautifully pair of polished wooden double doors. Apparently, the Combine hadn't changed much of the Palace when they took over.

"Wait here," the ranking officer ordered, his soldiers taking up their positions around Gordon and the Gman, "I'll explain the situation to the general."

And with that, he turned to the doors and pushed them open, walking into the room beyond as the doors closed almost immediately behind him, offering little more than a second of sight inside.

The frantic rush having now ended, Gordon's mind could catch up with the subconscious realisation he'd made outside: the Swedish general was dead.

Trying to stay what seemed foolishly optimistic, Gordon tried to consider what real and immediate issue that caused. None, as far as he knew. The fact that he was here now, safe and about to have an audience with the leader of the Combine coup against the Advisors, was one that no assassination — save for those of the French general and himself — could possibly stop now.

—

"So..." the French general clasped his hands together behind his back, stepping out from beside Dr. Breen to the front of his elegantly carved desk, "Freeman came with a Fissionist and a Major General from Sweden?"

"From the insignia we saw on the soldier's uniform, yes." The officer agreed.

"And out of these three," the French general continued, a hint of suspicion in his tone, "the one that just _happened _to receive a bullet to the head was not only arguably the least important of the group... but also the only _Combine _soldier."

The officer paused momentarily. "What are you suggesting, sir?"

"How do you know this assassination was not staged by Freeman himself?" the French general proposed, raising a pensive finger.

"Sir, you seem to be... well, extremely paranoid for one so accepting of the human race's acts these past two decades."

"This is not solely to make peace with the human race," the French general reminded the officer, "it is equally important we justify the wrongs committed by the Advisors and accomplish the task given to us by the Prime Advisors all those years ago. I will not allow simple naivety to undermine this entire coup, especially not by a man that I only recently discovered was alive again."

The officer bowed his head in respect for his superior's discretion. While he didn't consider it entirely reasonable to distrust a man who had no real reason to continue all this fighting, it certainly was wise not to be thoughtlessly compliant with him. "What would you have me do, sir?"

The French general looked behind him, at Dr. Breen. "As Administrator, the final decision is ultimately in your hands."

Nodding understandingly, Dr. Breen looked at the officer before him. "Send him in... along with your entire unit."

"Sir?"

"Perhaps I am the one being paranoid... but I'd feel much more secure knowing that Freeman won't have an opportunity to finish what he once started." Slowly, he looked down at the torn, armless sleeve of his suit jacket.

Seeing this subtle motion, the officer caught his Administrator's drift. "I see, sir. I'll send them in."

—

The doors now opening wide as wide as their glossy hinges would allow, Gordon and the Gman were escorted into Dr. Breen's office. Standing before the global Administrator's desk, the Combine soldiers pulled up a pair of lightly cushioned chairs and offered them a seat, which they accepted graciously.

Watching the two people behind the desk, Gordon thought to offer them what he hoped would be a warm smile as a sign of goodwill. The lack of reaction from either of them seemed a bit unnerving, but Gordon ignored any such feelings he was getting and simply continued watching.

He also took note — without turning around — that the soldiers had not left the room and were in fact still positioned behind them. Perhaps Wallace Breen was not quite ready to allow them a meeting with him and the general unguarded. While normally this would seem somewhat unreasonable, the conspicuous absence of both his right arm and sleeve was justification enough for such actions.

"Good morning, Dr. Freeman." Wallace Breen smiled thinly, perfectly masking whatever delusive intentions they held, if any. Looking over at the Gman, his smile widened. "Ah, I remember you." He shook his head, his smile still remaining on his lips. "Seeing you here in a situation of this magnitude, especially by the side of Dr. Freeman, everything about you that mystified me in the past now makes perfect sense."

"You understand my true origins?" the Gman asked politely, tilting his head in an invitingly curious manner.

"I believe you would be the Fissionist one of my generals boldly proclaimed was assisting the two Gordon Freemans that were at the White Forest Resistance base in Romania last year... which explains how what appeared to be an ordinary man was able to give me the purest sample of a Xen Crystal ever to come to this Earth."

Every single Overwatch soldier, from the guard unit to the French general himself, snapped their heads around to look at their Administrator as he said these they had come to accept from the announcement made concerning this Fissionist a few days ago (after the Romanian general's proclamation to the Advisors) was that he had only been on Earth a very brief time, and now their leader was telling them he had been there before even _they _had arrived?

"Indeed I am." The Gman agreed.

Dr. Breen nodded. "Very well. Dr. Freeman," the elderly man turned his head to Gordon, his smile just as cocksure as it had appeared on every single Breencast Gordon could remember, "surely you understand the implications of what I just said?"

Gordon frowned. "I'm not quite sure I understand you..."

"This man caused the Black Mesa Incident, with full knowledge of what he was doing." Dr. Breen explained calmly, his eyes showing what appeared to be _pity _for what he assumed was a terrible mistake on Gordon's behalf. "He brought the Combine to Earth and caused all the pain and suffering that you have witness in the time you have been here."

Whatever response Dr. Breen had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been a broad smile. "I already knew that."

Confused by how calm Gordon seemed to be to this, Dr. Breen also frowned. "But... surely you understand what this man has _done_..."

"I most certainly do. Much better than you appear to, I might add."

"I'm afraid that it is now I who does not understand..." Dr. Breen muttered.

"He caused the Black Mesa Incident... so that an intricate plan the Fissionist Faction had devised to bring about the _downfall of the Combine_ would come to fruition."

To the Overwatch soldiers listening to Gordon, _that _could arguably be considered the cause of the most horrific realisation in the history of the Combine: coming to Earth had effectively sealed their fate.

Completely aware of the impact his words were having, Gordon pressed on. "Everything that has happened over the past thirteen months has been at his discretion, from the destruction of Nova Prospekt to the Resistance rocket that we launched through the Superportal." Pausing to let all this sink in, Gordon then continued. "Until I killed Corporal Adrian Shephard at Inferno Abyss last year, I was unaware of this plan. But the moment I killed him, the very second the killing bullet hit his body... time stopped, and he revealed it all to me."

Dr. Breen, utterly captivated by this revelation, urged Gordon to go on. "Please continue, Dr. Freeman."  
Realising that he was now the centre of attention, Gordon took the opportunity to deliver. "Are any of you wondering, then, why this Fissionist, the one who had orchestrated a complex design for the purpose of your destruction, is seated here with me now?"

The sound of rifles stocks brushing sharply against Combine fatigues behind him was enough of a hint to make him realise what he had just said was rather ambiguous in meaning. _Perhaps they think some kind of surprise attack is going to follow that statement up._

Hurriedly, Gordon continued. "Because one man, a general from the Swedish Overwatch, stood up for what he believed and showed us the error of our ways. He showed us what the Combine was truly striving to attain was not ourdestruction, but our _unification_."

"And that is exactly what we have been trying to accomplish these past two decades," the French general agreed, stretching up proudly. "The Advisors were blinded by their hatred of the Resistance and their crimes against us... they were convinced there was no hope for the human race. They were ready to end your existence at a moment's notice, and that is why... that is why I was forced to take _action _against them."

"Do you understand?" Gordon asked the general. "Do you understand that we had no idea what you were trying to accomplish, that we were simply acting in defiance against a force to whose nature we were ignorant?"

"Most certainly." The general nodded.

"And that now we understand you do not want to destroy us but rather unite us under your banner, do you understand that nothing is preventing us from ending this raging conflict and... _uniting_ with you?"

The French general nodded once more. "I do."

Gordon stood up, offering a hand to the general. "Then let's make it happen. Let's end this fighting and let's begin a new chapter in the history of the human race, in coalition with the Combine."

The French general stepped forward, extending his own hand. "As representative of the Overwatch forces fighting for the greater good here on Earth... let us do just that."

And for the first time in history, man and Combine shook hands as a symbol of their unity.

* * *

**You know... that would be an epic place to end this story, with Gordon Freeman and the leader of the Combine coup d'etat against the Advisors shaking hands. **

**But I'm not going to end it there, because there are so many loose ends to tie up and only one person exploded in this chapter. Besides, remember that the Gman and Gordon want to establish an organisation that, instead of unification through conquest like the Universal Union, is based on peaceful unification? And the Gman's doppelganger isn't dead yet... he's just blind, and very very VERY pissed off.**

**Also, the Combine are going to take seven or so months to get to Earth, and there are quite a lot of angry Combine soldiers that still think this coup is just as much a crime as the existence of the human Resistance is. Suffice it to say everyone loves to read about a good bloodbath... and that's what y'all gonna get pretty darn soon.  
**


	26. Twenty Five: Consequences

**-=Chapter Twenty Five: Consequences=-**

**Palace of Nations, 11:11 AM**

"I thought that was extremely well executed, Dr. Freeman," the Gman added as they exited Dr. Breen's office, the large double doors closing behind them.

Breathing a sigh of relief that sounded as if he had been keeping it in the entire meeting, Gordon looked over at him. "Damn right, buddy. Geez, I was nervous as hell in there."

"Such is to be expected, judging by the subconscious acknowledgment you undoubtedly made when considering the magnitude of the event."

Gordon smiled, shaking his head. "Yeah, I think it qualifies as pretty important."

"Indeed."

Nodding his head, Gordon rubbed below his eye. "Surprised they didn't say anything about your eyepatch."

The Gman shrugged, unconcerned with such triviality. "It is of no relevance to the matter."

"Still, it looks pretty obvious, don't you think?"

Smiling with the faintest hint of humour, the Gman answered, "I wouldn't know, I can't see it."

Not knowing whether to laugh or not, Gordon went ahead and did. "Well, anyway, I've got a job to do."

Surprised by his remark, the Gman frowned slightly. "Pray tell, what are you talking about, Dr. Freeman?"

"Look," Gordon put a hand on the suited guardian's shoulder, turning his body around to face him on the full, "that sniper. He was at Belarus when I killed the Siberian general. I know who it is: Adrian Shephard."

The Gman nodded slowly. "Yes... I know."

Without really considering what the Gman had said, Gordon continued, "If he's going to hound me halfway across the globe, I think it's time I stopped screwing around and killed the son of a bitch."

"You brought the entire capacity of your arsenal, correct?"

"Yeah... but it's in our chopper, and he's up on the roof with a rifle."

Nodding once more, the Gman sighed. "Consider the ramifications should you be killed shy of ten minutes after making one of the most important political decisions in the history of your species."

Gordon merely offered a thin smile in reply. "Then I'd better make sure I don't die, wouldn't you say?"

"Absolutely."

"Besides," Gordon shrugged dismissively, "it's only happened to me once before."

"That's one time more than most living people can claim to have experienced."

"And, to be honest, I'm not really in any hurry to die."

Raising an eyebrow, the Gman pressed the comment, "I was under the apparently mistaken impression you desired to return to your post-mortem paradise with Ms. Vance as soon as possible?"

"I've got a job to do here on Earth," Gordon muttered, "and I'm going to see it through, whatever it takes."

—

"He got every one of them," the officer admitted wearily, looking out a window on the second floor at the small collection of guard bodies lying just outside the Palace. "Hot damn, Freeman, who the hell is this guy?"

Slotting the last Dark Energy ammunition capsule into the pulse rifle's internal cyclic magazine, Gordon looked up at the officer and smiled. "A professional."

"In what sense?" the officer asked, interested. "As good as you?"

Laughing, Gordon straightened up. "Hell no," he snorted in mock boast, wrenching back the Overwatch charging handle sharply, "I'm the best there is."

"Who is he then?"

Gordon hoisted the rifle. "He's a Marine. One of the ones sent to Black Mesa to stop everything that brought you here."

"Part of the United States Military?" the officer asked curiously, "how did they know that the Portal Storms would draw our attention to Earth?"

"They didn't," Gordon explained. "Somehow, they knew that the whole experiment had gone wrong and they were sent in to silence us."

"And you fought back?"

"Damn straight."

The officer paused. "If my memory serves correctly, I was told that the Black Mesa Research Facility had disappeared."

"It didn't disappear," Gordon muttered. "The Marine Corps blew it up."

"To cover the entire thing up?"

"Exactly."

"And then we came and destroyed them in just over a quarter of a human day."

Gordon nodded slowly, "and I'm going to finish the last one of for you."

—

He knelt atop the edge of the roof, gazing across the courtyard in a search for hostile movement. His eyes ever wary, scanning every little minute detail they could single out, he watched over the grounds like some kind of masked sentinel.

Except he wasn't guarding the Palace of Nations... he was guarding himself.

After a few more moments of playing the watchman, Shephard slowly rose to his feet. By now, he was pretty sure Freeman wasn't coming back out — at least, not while he knew Shephard would be waiting to pick him off — so he'd decided the best course of action would be to get inside.

The easiest way would be to make his way down the side of the building, onto a window sill or something and break the glass. Sure, the guards would probably realise he was inside within half a minute, but he wasn't expecting much of a resistance.

Deciding that to be the best course of action, Shephard started on his way over to the other side of the roof. He expected there'd be less manpower over there, since they'd probably be crowded around the front where he'd been picking the soldiers off. Flicking the selective fire switch from semi-auto to safe and unclipping the telescopic sight from the picatinny rail, Shephard thumbed the rifle's magazine release and partially slid the magazine out of its well to check the number of remaining rounds. Satisfied with the twenty five remaining rounds, he proceeded to slide the magazine back into its well...

...just as an airvent grate clattered on the roof over to his left and a short burst of pulse rounds slammed into his PCV, resulting in a mechanised squeal inside his gasmask telling him he'd been injured. The force of the shots almost knocking him over, the loose magazine Shephard had been loading into his M4A1 slid clean out of its well and flew clear off the edge of the building.

Taken completely by surprise, Shephard instinctively stumbled backwards as he tried to rebalance himself, moving out of Gordon's line of fire behind a raised, rectangular section of the roof. Fumbling with his combat webbing, he tried to pull a new magazine free as he heard the cluttering sounds Dr. Freeman was making as he pulled himself out of the airvent.

Finally smacking a new magazine into his assault rifle, Shephard wrenched back the charging handle and quietly slid around the other side of the raised section he was taking cover behind. Trying to minimise the sound of his heavy breathing, he listened out for Gordon's footsteps, trying to determine where he was. He could hear him moving, faint steps on the hard roof somewhere on the opposite side of whatever this large raised bit of roof was. Doubtless it was purely for cosmetic purposes... unless of course someone happened to need to take cover on the roof.

Shephard was pretty happy it was there.

Listening closer to the light booted footfalls mere metres away from him, Shephard slowly moved around the corner to his right, hoping to get Freeman from behind.

Gripping the pistol grip of his rifle so tightly he could swear he was making an imprint in the hard synthetic plastics, Shephard slipped around the next corner and continued over to the next, his steps as light as that of a stalking cheetah. Stopping just short of the first side he'd taken cover behind, Shephard readjusted his hold on the foregrip and rounded the corner. Immediately he spotted Gordon, who only had a split second to turn around and spot the Marine about to open fire on him.

Which never happened.

The trigger wouldn't budge.

Shephard hadn't taken the safety off when he'd been checking his last magazine.

Both of the men realised this at the exact same moment, and both of them reacted in the exact same way: they swung the butts of their rifles at each other.

Gordon, having had little time to react and little room to manoeuvre the large pulse rifle, did the only thing that he could with the speed and efficiency he needed. Shephard, having his gun on safe and his enemy mere metres away, did what came naturally.

In an instant, the two rifles met, stock to stock. Combine metal against human plastics, making a dull _thung _sound as they collided. Lashing out, Shephard kicked Gordon in the upper leg, trying to unbalance him as he flicked his rifle's safety off. Gordon, having been caught by the blow, stumbled backwards a little as he raised his own rifle and attempted to open fire.

Shephard, now on the offensive, stepped forward and lashed out again with the butt of his rifle, thrusting at Gordon's cheek. Ducking down sharply, Gordon swung his own rifle back at Shephard's legs, connecting with a sharp crack. Letting up momentarily, Shephard grunted as Gordon stood up and quickly backpedalled out of the way.

Now facing each other from a reasonable distance, the two of them attempted to raise their rifles and open fire on each other. Realising that this wasn't exactly going to end favourably for him, Gordon jumped out of Shephard's way, scampering past the big rectangular block Shephard had been behind in an attempt to put more distance between the two. Shephard, obviously preferring an actual fight rather than a pussy's chase, charged after Gordon with a proclamation of hot lead in the lead.

One bullet slammed into Gordon's back, burning like a red hot poker and spraying a thin splutter of warm blood out behind him. Distracted by the pain, Gordon attempted to turn around as he scrambled behind the corner of more cover and returned fire with a burst of inaccurate shots.

Surprisingly, two of the shots hit home, one of the pulse rounds hitting one of Shephard's gloved hands. Instantly a jet of blood squirted out from around his knuckles and he yelped, his hold on his M4 loosening as Gordon ran from his cover and charged.

With a tremendous crash, Gordon's lightly padded shoulder smashed into Shephard's lower ribcage, knocking Shephard to the ground and throwing his rifle from his grip.

Without spending a moment to let up the attack, Gordon dropped down with the Marine and pressed him to the ground with his armoured knee.

Struggling under his weight, Shephard growled in a mix of anger and agony. Suddenly, something flashed before his eyes, a moment of what seemed like vivid memory and déjà vu at the same time.

This exact same situation, but in the snow.

But he'd never been to the snow... at least, not with this man. What was happening?

Gordon, on the other hand, was experiencing something a lot different: that dream he'd had, the night he'd been resurrected...

_...shooting some sort of hyperbolic incarnation of a Combine general amalgamated with the devil..._

_...opaque lenses glowing a fiery red..._

_...a deafeningly garbled cackle reverberating through a gloomy cavern..._

But as he fired at the malevolently fantastical creature, it slowly began to change from the mask of an Overwatch general... to the dark brown gasmask of a Marine in the Hazardous Environment Combat Unit of the US Marine Corps.

Standing up abruptly, Gordon's rifle clattered to the ground as he stumbled backwards and clawed at his hair, moaning in pain as the nightmare continued...

_...And then, he was falling, falling into a bottomless pit of eternal blindness combined with the infinite reaches of time and space... and a smug voice humphed triumphantly, taking the physical form of Dr. Wallace Breen, smiling haughtily before his bespectacled eyes._

But as he watched, the face transformed grotesquely, the hair darkening at a rapid pace and the jawbones violently elongating, the eyes deepening and darkening... so dark that it was as if the eyes were not even there, as if only the eyesockets remained...

His face contorted in pain and his eyes watering, Gordon watched helplessly as the entity of his nightmares solidified not ten metres in front of him, dry blood caking around his eyes as what appeared to be two shattered ribs poked out of his sockets. His suit was covered in a very light layer of thin snow and absolutely drenched in partially coagulated blood and two snapped ribs were poking out of his chest, evidently being the other half of the pair of bones poking out of his eyes.

Somehow, he knew exactly where Gordon was.

"I'll go right ahead and admit I'm quite surprised at the actions of my twin," he announced, his head tilting down to look at where Corporal Shephard lay panting heavily, "I expected him to terminate me entirely."

With a quick wave of his hand, Shephard's body was gently lifted from the rooftop and floated upright about a metre from the ground, just in front of the Gman's doppelganger. Rolling his tongue around inside his mouth, he continued talking, "dear me, Adrian Shephard... you really didn't make a very good effort, did you?"

Shephard, for whatever reason, didn't make a response.

"Such a pity... but at least it was tangible incentive to remove any feelings of loss I may have experienced in the aftermath of your expiry."

Shephard grunted weakly. "..._what...?_"

"Corporal Shephard, you never were going to survive." The Gman's duplicate whispered, moving ever closer to the agonised Gordon Freeman. "No living being, save for those of divine nature and the Members of the Fissionist Faction, are going to survive should I have my way."

"..._why?_"

"Because life is a curse... and it would be desirable to eradicate that deficiency as a gesture of mercy upon mortality."

"...you want to wipe out the whole universe?"

Apparently, Shephard hadn't been in the know about that little issue everyone had with the Gman's twin.

"I never did get around to informing you of my agenda, did I?" he sighed, shaking his head. "Well, now you know. Have a pleasant rest, Corporal Shephard."

And with that, Shephard's head exploded.

It was as if some kind of high pressure device had been embedded in his skull, bursting it like a heavy, plastic and silicone rubber shelled balloon. His gasmask shattered like an exploding eggshell, the deafening crack of the synthetic materials made over louder by the ear-splitting snap of his upper spinal column and skull. As was to be expected, this cascade of cranial and plastic shrapnel was awash with a bucketload of crimson blood and streaked with thin stringy debris made of sticky clear liquid, soft grey matter and bloody pink chunks of brain.

His vision blurred by the tears of pain welled up in his eyes, Gordon simply watched this chaos pass as his head throbbed like a house sized subwoofer. As the lifeless body of the headless Marine dropped limply to the ground, the Gman's duplicate simply continued walking toward Gordon, ignoring the droplets of blood slowly sliding their way down the front of his suit. "You knew, didn't you?" he asked calmly, his eyeless head watching Gordon dizzily backing away. "Certainly my twin familiarised you with the past we have had?"

Gordon could only give a weak groan in reply.

"You've seen what's beyond the grave, Freeman..." he whispered, grinning sinisterly as he moved closer to the weakened physicist, "...you know the paradise that lies in the ethereal light."

Grunting, Gordon raised his head to look straight at the rogue guardian towering above him. "Euthanise the universe..."

"Exactly, my dear doctor," the Gman's doppelganger's grin widened, "surely you understand the logic behind my proposal?"

"And when did I ever say that I didn't?" the Gman asked, hooking his left arm around his duplicate's neck and wrenching it to the right with his other arm, snapping his upper spine in one swift move.

His head now locked facing the right, the Gman's twin squeezed his neck and growled. "Face it, Gman..." he snarled, another bone cracking inside his neck, "...neither you nor the Fissionists ever accepted my ideas as anything other than ludicrous!"

"I already explained to you!" the Gman snapped back. "In the Combine barracks at Rostock! We could never accept something so contrastive to both the moral ideology of the Fissionist Faction and the terrestrial inhabitants of Earth!"

Roaring in fury, the Gman's doppelganger thrust his head back into place, sending a large chunk of cervical vertebra jabbing out of the soft flesh on the left side of his neck. His neck now technically fixed, he turned on the Gman, looking like some kind of reanimated corpse with the ribs poking out of his eyesockets and the piece of upper spine jutting out of his neck. "If that is the case, then why did your precious Dr. Freeman just make peace with the Combine? The last time I checked, their methods weren't exactly applicable to this farce you call morality!"

The Gman lowered his head, glaring at his twin. "The Combine are not trying to wipe out all sentient life in the universe."

And with that, he rushed his duplicate and slammed a clenched fist into his abdomen, puncturing the flesh covering it and smothering his small intestine and half of his stomach. Blood and saliva spilling out from lax lips and light green stomach acids staining what remained of his suit, his duplicate lashed out, grabbing the arm of his twin and cleanly snapping it in two, leaving a bloody stub of flesh and muscle and the broken remains of his radius and ulna bones.

Ignoring a wound that would kill most men from sheer trauma alone, the Gman instead used the jagged remnant of the bones in his arm to stab at his opponent, trying to cut his duplicate with the sharp and crudely broken stubs of bone. A quick slice across the cheek was enough, leaving the thin flesh flapping open like a one-sided Glasgow smile.

Behind the brawling pair, the pain was leaving Gordon's head. Apparently the Gman's doppelganger had been causing it somehow and now that he was distracted it was no longer in effect. Clearing his eyes, Gordon was horrified to see the two literally ripping each other to pieces, the Gman swinging the stub of an arm at his twin while he tried to club the Gman with his own arm.

Frantically trying to think of something he could do to help, Gordon desperately scanned the rooftop for the pulse rifle he'd had. Unfortunately, it was right in between the two Fissionists and there was no chance in hell that he would be able to get it unharmed.

However, something else caught his eye from behind them: Shephard's M4A1 assault rifle, complete with M203 underslung grenade launcher module.

Taking one quick glance at the duo of fighters, Gordon practically scampered on all fours over to the rifle, clambering to his feet as he swept the rifle up, checked the grenade launcher and — surprisingly — found it was loaded.

Not bothering with that little issue at the time, seeing as it was probably going to save his ass, Gordon ran back toward the two guardians, tightening his grip on the M203's trigger and yelled, "GMAN!"

Taking both of the Fissionists by surprise, Gordon roared some kind of distractive battle cry as he charged into the Gman's twin, stabbed the front of the rifle into the hole in his abdomen and pulled the trigger.

It was absolute carnage.

The Gman's twin simply split in half, shreds of bloodied flesh and muscle splattering the relatively clean roof as the grenade exploded, the wave of shrapnel and the force of the explosion itself shearing him in two. His waist was also shredded, leaving his legs to wobble separately for a moment before collapsing amid what remained of his offal and the pool of blood now spreading out underneath the precipitation of body parts falling from the morning sky.

His torso, on the other hand, was blown backwards at a steep angle, flipping over in midair before falling back down to the rooftop and splattering the little remnants of fluids left in his body into the swirling puddle of blood and melted guts simmering on the roof, the chunk of flesh and bone that had been his torso plastering itself to the roof in a mixture of burnt flesh, warm sticky blood and torn lung, the majority of his lower ribcage uncovered after the explosion blasted the skin and muscle covering it to pieces.

Gordon, on the other hand, was merely blown backwards into the spreading pool of blood, the rifle clattering to the ground somewhere behind him after the close proximity to the explosion shockwave had blasted both it and the man carrying it to the ground.

The Gman, who had been standing not half a metre from the explosion, was absolutely drenched in blood and slivers of pale skin. Despite this horrendous mess, he simply wiped his mouth nonchalantly with the back of his remaining hand as if he were cleaning it with a napkin in an expensive restaurant.

Groaning in disgust, Gordon slowly got to his feet and gingerly patted the back of his head, the sticky Fissionist blood smudging all over his gloves. "Shit..." he muttered, cringing.

"On the contrary," the Gman disagreed, examining his ruined arm calmly, "I thought it was a rather impressive demonstration of your tactical capabilities, Dr. Freeman."

Frowning, Gordon slowly turned his head to the Gman.

"Yes?" the Gman inquired, raising an eyebrow curiously.

Gordon sighed quietly, turning around and walking away. "Forget it. I'm going inside."

* * *

**Yes... I'm sorry, that was short. But believe me, so was the fight that happened at Aperture Science in Episode 3. Suffice it to say that I intend to make the epic battle between the Combine coup forces and the Advisor loyal Overwatch units at least twice as long as the siege on White Forest, and perhaps the base will get to see some action herself.**

**Te story isn't over yet, it's just nearing its conclusion. And I hope you all enjoy it when it comes.  
**


	27. Twenty Six: Aspirations

**-=Chapter Twenty Six: Aspirations=-**

**Palace of Nations, 11:32 AM**

"Do you require any... medical assistance, Dr. Freeman?" the French general asked, somewhat cautiously, as they marched down the decoratively carpeted hallway.

Gordon offered a polite shake of his head. "I'm alright, just a little numb." He glanced over his shoulder at the silent Gman behind him, who was being kept occupied by examining the bloody half of his arm that had been torn off, "do you need any help?"

The Gman looked up from his severed limb momentarily, smiling weakly. "Surgical procedures to replace it will be well within my therapeutic abilities to adequately complete."

"Good to hear," Gordon smiled back comfortingly, leaving his omnipotent friend to his business, "he'll be fine." He reported to the general, who nodded slowly.

"I'm glad to see you didn't get yourself killed, Dr. Freeman," the general admitted as they rounded a corner, leading to a marble staircase in the middle of an extremely large and grandiloquent designed hall, "especially before the treaty had been made public."

"Ah, so we're going to make an announcement?" Gordon asked energetically, his smile widening.

"Most certainly," the general agreed, "in fact, that's exactly why I've brought you here now."

Gordon, turning his head away from the general to look down the stairs they had just started to descend, saw the gathering at the foot of the stairs and realised that this wasn't going to be just any old Breencast.

There, a few metres from the foot of the stairs, was the equivalent of ten hungry ENG crews waiting in eager anticipation to broadcast the first appearance of both the leader of the human Resistance and the leader of the Combine coup d'état in peaceful unity. There were five big, gunmetal grey cameras propped up on thick tripods, behind which were about fifty flocking Combine soldiers serving as camera crews.

"This is being broadcast live, by the way." The general explained.

Gordon snapped his head around to look at the general, before looking back at the crowd awaiting their arrival. This was serious.

The general, who was apparently a lot more prepared for this than Gordon was, clasped his hands behind his back as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Fellow members of the Overwatch," he greeted the audiences watching from across the blue and green planet, "today, an immensely critical event in our history has taken place: Dr. Gordon Freeman, the notorious leader and posterboy of the human Resistance, arrived here at the Palace of Nations in the company of a Lieutenant General of the Swedish Overwatch and a Fissionist Gman, who is now standing behind the good doctor and I."

He gestured with one of his hands to the casual guardian behind him, who was trying and, unfortunately, failing to conceal that his right arm was in two very messy pieces. The general, entirely aware that the millions of soldiers watching could see these wounds, opted to elaborate on the reason he'd been given by Dr. Freeman just a few minutes ago. "The Swedish general was, regrettably, assassinated by a man Dr. Freeman himself has both identified and eliminated as an ex-United States Marine who was part of the unit that allegedly attacked Black Mesa in an attempt to cover up the occurrence of the Resonance Cascade there, twenty one years ago.

"During this confrontation, however, a rogue Fissionist materialised and proceeded to attack Dr. Freeman. Fortunately, the Gman that accompanied Dr. Freeman here discovered the presence of the attacker and quickly subdued him. As you can clearly see, however," he waved a gloved hand at the wounded Fissionist again, "he did not survive unscathed."

The Gman offered the cameras a warm smile, as if to silently enforce that he was quite alright.

"Of course, Freeman's agenda was sensibly organised..." the general continued. "Because despite the fact that there was an armed assailant on the roof of the building, he decided instead that the single most important objective was to finally settle the conflict that has been raging these past thirteen months. And today, my comrades... that conflict has ceased."

After taking a brief pause to allow this information to sink in, he went on, "As the leader of the French Overwatch, and as the leader of the interim government of the Combine forces on Earth under the administration of Dr. Wallace Breen, I declare that from this day forward there shall not be one bullet fired by any unit of the Overwatch with the intent of causing harm to a human being, and I ask that Dr. Freeman will see to it that the human race will respect this order by abiding to this ceasefire."

Gordon, realising the focus was now on him, nodded calmly. "While I don't feel I'm in any real position to take authority of that sort, I trust that mankind understands the implications of this declaration and will react accordingly. I would like to say one thing though: if any man decides to open fire on any Combine soldier so as to exploit the order of the French general, I personally give permission with whatever authority I _do_ have to that Combine soldier to do what you have been doing ever since I ignited this uprising — enforcing justice against an illegal rebellion."

Behind Gordon, the Gman smiled. _Cleverly done, Dr. Freeman._

"And may I also take this opportunity," the general added, "to remind the Combine forces on Earth that should they _disobey_ this order, there will be _no_ legal boundaries restricting any threatened human being from retaliating with lethal force."

Straightening up, the general looked back at the cameras. "We have information that a Combine fleet will be arriving from the Capital in approximately half a year to evacuate the entire Combine force from Earth. Until they arrive, we will continue to collaborate so as to keep this peace intact until permanent measures can be put into operation concerning peaceful unity with the human race. My promise to the Combine forces of Earth is that we have accomplished the task we were given over twenty years ago. My promise to the people of Earth is that whatever oppression you may have experienced during these two long decades is at your discretion to forgive and that we will do everything in our power to integrate all technology and resources at our disposal with your society without further insinuation of our culture. You will no longer be ruled by the Combine Empire and the Universal Union, you will be our ally... and our friend. This I promise you today."

Having paused once more, the general gave his final statement. "And if any soldier of the Overwatch deems it appropriate to fight against this constitution that Dr. Breen, Dr. Freeman and I have set up with the united vision of universal peace... then let them fight. But be advised that should you do so, then not only will you be met with not only the might of the Overwatch forces who are not fooled by the farce of the Advisors, but the entirety of the human race who have faith in Dr. Freeman's decision and trust that I and Dr. Breen will deliver on our promise to you.

"It is time to choose whose side you are on: will you join us in the endeavour for universal unity, or will you stand in bold defiance of peace and future prosperity? That is all."

And with that, the large tripod mounted cameras shut down, ending the live broadcast and leaving the world to decide which side they really were on.

—

"The human race should be safe for now," the general decided, opening the door to Dr. Breen's office as he spoke, "it's my boys that should be worrying now."

"You still think the soldiers still loyal to the Advisors are going to be a threat?" Gordon asked, walking into the office, the Gman following close behind him.

"Definitely," the general agreed, closing the door and following the physicist to Wallace Breen's desk. "Why, I expect at least a hundred thousand soldiers banging on the gates by the end of the week."

Gordon, realising that they really weren't in the clear yet, rested his head in his hand as he sat down. "Dammit, when is this going to end?"

"You won't actually have to do any of the fighting, Dr. Freeman," Dr. Breen assured him, clasping his hands together upon the expensive wood of his desk. "Why, you could return to White Forest whenever you wanted. I understand that the Resistance forces there will be adequate defence against any possible attackers, and if we need you for anything we can create an uplink from Romania to here in a moment."

Gordon looked up at Dr. Breen, smiling. "Dr. Breen, sir... I'm probably going to just stay here for a while."

"Really?" Dr. Breen raised an eyebrow curiously. "Why would that be?"

Gordon shrugged. "Look, as long as I'm around, whether I like it or not, I'm going to fight as long as I can."

Dr. Breen paused, before sighing deeply. "You really are resolute in your determination, aren't you?"

Smiling, Gordon rubbed his chin. "It's a good thing to have, sir."

"Indeed it is." The general agreed.

"Well, I'll see to it that you are assigned a place to lodge here, as well as the Gman, should he require it." Looking up at the Fissionist welcomingly, Dr. Breen smiled. "Should I make preparations?"

The Gman shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, Dr. Breen, but I necessitate no such accommodation."

Nodding, Dr. Breen looked back at Gordon. "Don't worry, Dr. Freeman," he reminded him encouragingly, noticing his somewhat solemn expression, "the Combine is at peace with mankind! Surely this is an event worthy of some celebration?"

Gordon rubbed his eye tiredly, "I guess... what were you thinking?"

His smiling broadening, Dr. Breen reached down to a drawer in his desk, pulling it open and placing the contents atop his desk. "I wouldn't usually resort to such detrimental forms of recreation..." he admitted, seeing Gordon's face changed at the sight of the object on the table,

Gordon shook his head in disbelief, his smile widening. The Gman, noticing the smallish metal case on the table, also smiled briefly. "A pleasant coincidence, wouldn't you say, Dr. Freeman?"

Gordon looked over his shoulder at the guardian standing behind him, nodding his head. "Absolutely," he agreed, reaching over to the case and snapping it open, pulling out one of the fat brown rolls from the decorated interior. "Cigars... who would've thought?"

"Not me, that's for certain." The general snorted, almost laughing. "Wallace Breen, of all people."

"Well," Dr. Breen smiled thinly, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly, "I wouldn't usually do something like this, as I said... but why not? Be daring, try something new."

Gordon looked at the cigar, twirling it around his gloved fingers. "You have to cut the end off, don't you?"

"I believe so, yes." Dr. Breen nodded, picking up a cigar of his own.

Frowning, Gordon studied the two ends, looking at the cap on one end. "Do you cut the cap off?"

The room was quiet for a second.

"I don't know." Dr. Breen admitted, smiling wider. Then he began to laugh, staring down at the roll of tobacco in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief, "I don't know." He repeated, laughing harder.

Gordon, giving into the temptation, started to laugh as well. Placing his head in his hand, Dr. Breen kept laughing, his shoulders shaking as he did.

Soon, the two calmed down, and Dr. Breen let out a loud sigh as he replaced the cigar in its case. "Well, there goes that idea."

Placing his own cigar back in the case, Gordon sighed too. "I promised a friend of mine... if he found one, I'd stick it in my mouth to see what it looked like. Just for a laugh."

Dr. Breen gestured to the case. "Go ahead." He offered, chuckling a little, "it's not like I'm going to use them for anything."

Gordon reached for his cigar again, his hand hovering over it before he finally plucked it from the case and stuck it in his mouth, cap-side out.

Smiling, Dr. Breen nodded. "It suits you, I suppose."

Gordon stood up and turned to the Gman, who nodded slowly. "I agree. It does seem rather fitting, Dr. Freeman."

"Try frowning." The general suggested.

Tentatively, Gordon did. The general chuckled. "Now all you need is a heavy-calibre revolver!"

Gordon, itching to see what he looked like, moved over to one of the windows. Looking at the faint reflection it offered, he smiled, the cigar still propped up between his teeth. Laughing at what he saw, he shook his head. "I look pretty dumb." He admitted, taking it from his mouth.

"Ah, come on, it wasn't bad." Dr. Breen smiled.

Gordon shrugged, looking out the window. The office looked out at the courtyard their Hunter-Chopper was landed in, which was in the shape of a rectangle with a dome on the top and covered in lush green grass. At the farthest point of this courtyard, he could see a large white water fountain, surrounded by a pool and a few small ornamental trees. Beyond the courtyard, the trees were much larger, and more numerous. Past the trees, Gordon could see three sets of railway, along with what appeared to be a train station. Behind that, he could see ten times more trees than were at the border of the courtyard, towering even above the multistorey train station in front of them.

But something caught his eye, near these tall trees and seemingly untouched train station: something small was descending from just behind the main building of the station, something with what appeared to be a synthetic, yellowy-brown carapace...

Gordon's eyes widened. "Soldiers are here."

Taken aback by this sudden comment, the general hurried over to the window, scanning the surrounding landscape warily. "I don't see anything," he muttered.

"It went behind the train station, over there," Gordon pointed, showing the general where he meant. "Keep watching that building."

Obeying, the general focused on the train station, scanning it cautiously, waiting for something to rise from be—

"I see it," he announced as the small golden-brown aircraft ascended from below the station and quickly flew off into the distance. "I've no idea what national sector they're from... I highly doubt they're intentions are peaceful, though, seeing as they didn't land closer."

Gordon headed back over to the Gman, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I think I'm going to take the paranoid approach this time around," he turned back to the general and Dr. Breen — who still hadn't closed the cigar case, "if that's alright with you."

Neither of them had any response to that. "You coming?" Gordon asked the Gman, who smiled and shook his head.

"Perhaps after I have repaired my arm to a substantial level of efficiency," the Gman answered, "but until then I'm afraid I'd prefer to fix myself up rather than take part in another fight."

Gordon nodded. "Here's hoping there's not too many of them."  
"I believe that you possess sufficient abilities to endure whatever quantity of hostility that may be presented you."

Snorting quietly, Gordon headed for the door. "I'll keep that in mind, Gman."

Watching him go, the Gman smiled. "He is no prodigious fighter," he replied to the general and Dr. Breen's silent questions, without turning to look at them, "he is just an ordinary man, subtly strengthened by the little events in his life that I was chosen to dictate."

Turning from the closed door, he faced Dr. Breen and the general, who was walking away from the window. "I advise you two to remember this one thing," he raised the index finger of his intact arm, resting the bloody half of his other in his lap, "that subtle augmentation of the mind will create a fighter a thousand times more capable than any trooper forced to withstand constant physical temperament."

The general frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Simply put, Gordon Freeman could destroy an entire battalion of your finest soldiers, general... because I have perfected his mentality."

The general was silent for a moment. "You're saying that he fights so well... because he's got a good brain?"

"That is merely the foundation, my dear general... as I said, I dictated events in his life that subtly and unknowingly tempered his mind." He paused, thinking for a moment, "let me try and explain — placing him in the epicentre of the Black Mesa Incident, twenty years ago, forced him to fight because of a subconscious feeling that he was responsible. Consequently all the suffering he witnessed as he tried to escape, combined with a tangible enemy in the Hazardous Environment Combat Unit and the inhabitants of Xen, created subliminal incentive for him to fight _because he believed he was responsible._"

"I still don't understand," the general admitted.

"I think I do," Dr. Breen interrupted. "He fought because of an unconscious feeling of guilt."

"He would have fought anyway," the Gman added, "but the fact that he felt responsible magnified the intensity of his abilities."

"And that's what you mean by subtle augmentation of the mind, is it?" Dr. Breen asked, smiling thinly.

The Gman nodded. "I merely orchestrated the scenarios that my vast knowledge of human psychology predicted would strengthen Dr. Freeman's mentality without any conscious comprehension that it was happening."

"And that's why he's such a good fighter."

"Exactly. Of course, the Black Mesa Incident wasn't the only thing... seeing almost identical suffering at the hands of the Combine had the same effect, along with a few other little spanners I threw in the works along the way."

Shaking his head in amazement, Dr. Breen smiled widely. "You really are something else, Gman, you know that? That is absolutely astounding."

Smiling in return, the Gman nodded. "It's part of my job description."

—

The doors of the Hunter-Chopper swung wide, Gordon rushed inside the utilitarian-styled cabin of the chopper. Wasting no time, he hurried over to the back of the cabin, behind the rear line of seats, and immediately opened up a double-door locker serving as what appeared to be an armoury.

Lining the back wall and sides of the metal cabinet were multiple Overwatch pulse rifles, untouched since the aircraft had been seized by the Resistance last year and unmoved during the past year when it sat silently in the parking lot of Aperture Laboratories. Beside each one was what looked like a futuristic stripper clip of three Dark Energy ammo capsules, which were supposed to be slotted into that semi-circular ring magazine permanently attached to the weapon.

Below this row of standard armaments was Gordon's private collection: an MP7 with full-length Picatinny rail, curved stock and anti-slide pistol grip rested on two rungs around the middle of the locker, along with multiple 45-round box magazines. Propped up beside the submachine gun was a pump action SPAS-12. There was his USP Match 9mm handgun hanging on the left wall of the locker, along with four 18-round magazines, and below that was his revolver, a Colt Python Elite .357 Magnum with a spare 6-round speedloader clip. Hanging on the right wall was his laser guided rocket launcher, the RPG-25. Below it hung his crossbow, complete with telescopic sight clamped onto the top.

On the floor of the locker was spare ammunition: boxes of hollow-point .357 rounds, round-nosed full-metal jacketed 9x19mm slugs, 12 gauge buckshot shells, bottlenecked cased steel-core brass-jacketed 4.6x30mm rounds, High Explosive and HE Anti Tank laser-riding 85mm warheads, steel crossbow bolts and MK3A2 concussion grenades.

And resting on the left door of the cabinet was the weapon that had become synonymous with the Resistance itself: the crowbar, complete with slight rust, dry blood and flaking red paint.

He had everything he could ever want in the armaments department... and he didn't need half of it. But it was always a good idea to be cautious, given the situations he'd come up against before.

Without wasting any more time looking, Freeman quickly grabbed one of the pulse rifles and the ammo clip beside it, strapping the rifle around his shoulders as he for the box of grenades on the ground, slipping three into various pockets of his combat webbing as his other hand grabbed his .357 and the spare speedloader clip, holstering it as he strapped his crossbow around his shoulders and grabbed some of the long metal bolts. Pausing momentarily, he looked around the inside of the locker again, before reaching for his shotgun and pumping the action. As he'd expected, it was empty, so he quickly loaded up and crammed a few handfuls of shells into his webbing.

Satisfied, he looked at the door of the cabinet and smiled, taking the crowbar from the door and examining it in admiration. Sure, it wasn't the same one he'd carried out of Black Mesa and through the alien planet of Xen, but this one had been with him the longest... so long as the other him hadn't lost it and found another one while he'd been dead.

And so, with a pulse rifle and a crossbow hanging from his shoulders, a revolver in its holster, three grenades, a fully loaded shotgun in one hand and his crowbar in the other, Gordon exited the chopper and closed the doors, smiling to himself.

If those bastards were here to kill them... then life would be very unfortunate for them in the short time they had left.

—

There were twelve of them, all of them wearing identical grey camouflage uniform that matched the metallic gunmetal colour of their pulse rifles. Keeping in two straight lines of six, they moved quickly and quietly, before splitting up and taking cover behind various obstacles leading up to the wide grassy courtyard.

One of the soldiers, assumedly the leader, waved a thickly gloved hand at the Hunter-Chopper landed over to the left side of the open garden. "That's probably Freeman's chopper," he explained to his squad over his radio, "so long as we don't get anywhere near it, everything should work out fine."

The soldiers didn't need to make any reply to the order, their commander knew they'd follow it. Giving them a thumbs up from the wide tree trunk he was behind, the commanding officer rushed toward the collection of shrubbery around the large water fountain at the edge of the courtyard border. The rest of his squad either followed after him or made their way over to one of the other nearby bushes. Waiting a few moments, the officer looked out from the side of the thick brush, checking that the area was clear. With a wave of his hand, he and his men climbed to their feet and charged, running from behind the fountain over to the right side of the courtyard, heading for the stairs on the right leading to the colonnade.

That was when the shit hit the fan: one of the soldiers went down, his right arm mutilated by gunfire and squirting a thin but high pressure jet of blood as his panicking heart pumped him dry. The soldier closest to him spotted the location of the wounds and turned to the left, seeing Gordon Freeman ducking down below the cockpit of his Hunter-Chopper, realigning the sights of his pulse rifle.

Making to run backwards, the soldier stumbled briefly as he tried to turn around and paid dearly for his haste with his life, his entire chest riddled with powerful slugs of kinetic energy that caused enough hydrostatic shock to his torso that his lungs burst and his heart exploded, fortunately all of which was contained inside his body.

Realising that shit had gotten serious, the remaining ten soldiers attempted to pull back as Gordon walked out from behind the front of his chopper, calmly lining up his sights with the closest retreating soldier and pressing down the trigger, tearing the fabric and flesh covering his neck and spraying a wave of crimson droplets all across the grass as the soldier dropped. Half the remaining soldiers tried to return fire, their loosely-aimed shots flying straight past Gordon as he moved his hand from the handguard of the exotic weapon to the alternate-fire trigger button on the side of the gun. Thumbing the button, Gordon braced himself as the energy ball launcher briefly charged up before releasing an extremely powerful ball of Dark Energy.

Of course, compared to the potency of the stuff the Gman had gotten from the Citadel that eventually destroyed half the Combine Capital, the energy ball was exceedingly diluted. If it wasn't, it would incinerate the pulse rifle itself as it charged up.

Unfortunately, the ball missed its original target, who ducked out of the way after he spotted Gordon swinging his weapon around to face him. Unfortunately for the soldier, it slammed straight into the one behind him before bouncing right back at him, crashing into the back of his head and completely incinerating his body in a cascade of compacted ash and high voltage sparks.

By then, the remaining seven soldiers had taken cover, most of them crammed behind the pool of the water fountain. "People, I want you to keep it tight!" the officer roared. "I want suppressing fire on my mark!"

The soldiers readied their guns again, preparing to return fire on Dr. Freeman on their commander's order.

"Three! Two! One!" the officer got to his knees, bracing the stock of his rifle against his shoulder, "open fire!" he yelled.

The other six soldiers got on their knees and prepared to open fire. However, none of them did. "Where the hell did he go?" one of the soldiers hissed.

Freeman was gone.

The officer, spotting the two giant bushes on the other side of the fountain, nodded at his men and held up three fingers, waving them at both the bushes. The soldiers, familiar with the silent orders, split into two teams of three and headed over to the foliage, ducking their heads cautiously. They'd seen what Freeman had done to five of their comrades already.

The team over at the left bush carefully made their way around the bush, their hearts beating and their fingers nervously gripping the handguards of their rifles, anticipating Freeman coming out of nowhere and jumping them.

The first soldier slowly edged his way around the back of the bush, his numbed facial muscles twitching beneath his masked face as a hidden sign of intense anxiety, his whole body shaking as he took the final step around to behind the bu—

There was nothing.

Freeman wasn't behind the bush.

Tentatively letting out a gasp of hot air, the soldier relaxed a little, scanning the ground around the bush just in case something was preparing to attack.

Fortunately, there wasn't.

Something rustled beside him.

In a split second, he'd snapped his head around to look at the bush right next to him, which he now discovered was occupied by an exceptionally nasty looking shotgun barrel. A moment later, that barrel's contents were occupying what remained of his head — which was a bloody, messy blob of bleeding brain covered with stringy, wire-like nerves and tendons in the shattered remains of a skull.

The other two soldiers reacted instantly, swinging their rifles around and filling the brush with gunfire, rustling the leaves violently and snapping multiple thin branches off, as they noticed a moment too late that Gordon had already stepped clear of the foliage and was now shooting them back.

The closest soldier's chest simply burst outwards like a blood spattered blossom of a fleshy flower, his combat webbing shredded by the close-range wave of lead shot. The last soldier of the divided team brought his gun around just as Gordon cocked his own, both of them shooting at the same time. The short barrage of pulse rounds pounded Gordon's heavily plated chest, knocking him off balance somewhat and sending his own burst of buckshot wider than he'd have liked. Fortunately, the majority of the pellets came in contact with the soldier's left hand, obliterating it and leaving a meaty chunk of tattered flesh and the remainder of his carpal bones.

The wave of lead leaving him incapacitated, the soldier's gun flew from his hands and clattered to the ground as Gordon pumped the action of his shotgun once more, kicking the soldier in the chest with the heel of his boot and sending his weakened body tumbling to the grass.

The other three soldiers, now entirely aware that he was nearby, had scampered over to do whatever they needed to, whether it be watching their comrades finish him off or help them out as he fought back. They hadn't been expecting to find two of their men brutally mutilated and the third lying limply on the ground, clutching the bleeding stub of his wrist.

And then Gordon came charging out from behind the opposite side of the bush, blasting away with his SPAS-12 and boasting a mildly ridiculous expression of adrenaline-fuelled rage. The first shot blew off the closest soldier's right arm and the rest of the shot went right past him, slamming into the lower right of the next soldier's ribcage. Gordon simply pushed the soldier with the missing arm onto the ground with the butt of his shotgun, shoved the guy clutching his abdomen out of his way and slammed the broadside of his gun into the final one's head, knocking him out instantly.

Then, out of nowhere, Gordon felt the muzzle of a pulse rifle rest just next to his left ear. "Next time, Dr. Freeman," the officer began smoothly, savouring the moment of having just caught arguably the most powerful man on Earth unawares, "keep tabs on your surroundings."

Taken completely by surprise, Gordon didn't really have any sort of backup plan ready to come into play. So, in a somewhat desperate attempt at life-saving distraction, Gordon raised his eyebrows in a look of total smugness. "Practice what you preach." He whispered.

The officer then made it absolutely clear that he wasn't a high-ranking general with years of experience under his belt by taking Gordon's advice. Frantically searching for the critical trump card that the ingenious Dr. Freeman had just played on his unsuspecting ass, Gordon elbowed him in the nose.

It was a cheap move, but then again if he'd been any better the sorry bastard wouldn't have fallen for it.

Bending down to check the insignia on the officer's shoulder, Gordon briefly tried identifying it and failed, so he simply ripped it off the soldier's uniform.

Then, shrugging complacently, Gordon cocked his shotgun and blasted the back of the officer's head to oblivion before turning back around and heading back for the Palace, leaving whatever feral creatures that wandered in from their burrows to feast on his uncovered brain, served on a cranial platter.

* * *

**The end is nigh, loyal readers... and it's pretty much going to be all the high-octane shit you've come to expect from me, but on prozac and at the headquarters for an intergovernmental organisation. And some other places, perhaps. Believe me, it's going to be SUPER EPIC.**


	28. Twenty Seven: Fruition Part One

**-=Chapter Twenty Seven: Fruition Part One=-**

**Palace of Nations, 11:51 AM**

"We watched you from here," the general chuckled, turning away from the window as Gordon walked through the doors. "The Gman was right about you."

"Splendidly executed, if I do say so myself." Wallace Breen agreed, offering his most genuine politician smile to Gordon as he took a seat before the administrator's expensively crafted mahogany desk.

"They were pretty pathetic," he muttered, leaning back comfortably in his seat. "If they had been any good, they'd have flanked the building and come in through a window or something." Remembering his souvenir, he pulled it from a pocket of his packed combat webbing, sliding it across Dr. Breen's desk for him to see it. "I'm guessing this guy was the leader, judging by the single silver bar on the insignia."

Examining the badge intently, Dr. Breen offered it to the general to look. "That's the badge of the Belgian Overwatch, is it not?"

Taking it, the general recognised it immediately and nodded. "Definitely."

Gordon frowned. "Belgium? That's north of here, right?"

"Northwest, to be exact."

"So why'd they come from the east?"

Taking the insignia back, Dr. Breen shrugged. "Damned if I know, Dr. Freeman."

Looking around the room, Gordon suddenly became aware that the Gman was no longer present. Noticing his apparent concern, the general spoke up. "Your Fissionist friend asked permission to perform surgery on himself. Since we don't have a medical facility on the premises, I gave him directions to the closest bathroom. He said that was all he needed before leaving."

Gordon nodded complacently, seeing as the explanation fitted with past experiences. The Gman didn't have a problem with fixing himself up, in fact it was more like he distrusted going under the knife with anyone else. "I'm sure there's something that we need to discuss with you," Gordon explained slowly, "that's why I asked."

"Really? Care to elaborate?" the general asked casually.

"Well, he and I thought it would be a good idea to put forward our suggestions... for a universal organisation taking the role of the Universal Union."

The general didn't seem to understand. "In what respect?"

Gordon, feeling a little out of his comfort zone without the Gman backing him up, tried to explain. "As in, a peaceful collaboration based on the same idea of universal unity." He paused, trying to summon up more confidence so that he didn't sound like a timid little girl. "Seeing as, from a human perspective, the manner with which the Combine has previously gone about this usually resulted in misinterpretation of your motives, like it has here and on the Phyx's planet."

The general cocked his head. "I understand what you're talking about..." he agreed. "And it makes sense. Of course, we once considered peaceful unity... but the conflicting ideologies of the many species in the universe deemed it an impossible feat."

Gordon nodding, smiling. "Yeah, I've been told that before, by the Swedish general that Marine murdered on our way in." Pausing again, Gordon scratched his chin. "He liked our idea."

"It makes sense, but as I said it's not really logical, seeing as every species is different and trying to unite under one banner would create interspecies friction."

Gordon smiled. "General, pardon my objection, but isn't that exactly what the Universal Union has caused anyway?"

Taken aback, the general made no reply. "Actually, you're right." He admitted quietly. "I never considered that aspect."

"Our idea is to have an organisation, not led by any governing body but led independently by appointed leaders from each species that joins it. The problem that the Combine encountered is that it tried to enforce its own culture and that caused negativity among the conquered societies."

The general nodded. "There's never been a problem before you started your little rebellion last year. Before the human race, we only got small pockets of resistance here and there, easy to put down. I guess we never considered fixing what wasn't broken."

"But it is broken," Gordon continued. "The process of conquest and cultural insinuation has caused the Universal Union to be alienated, and consequently that led to ignorance and bias about your real intentions." Rubbing his forehead, Gordon thought about what he was saying. "You know about the United Nations, right? Our little international organisation here on Earth?"

"Yes, I've heard all about it."  
"Basically, I'm suggesting that, but on a universal scale."

The general nodded.

"I have to agree with Dr. Freeman," Dr. Breen added. "While I was fortunate enough to hear what you really were trying to do and I accepted the means through which you accomplished them at the time, I only did so because I saw no other positive alternative. Now, seeing as the entirety of humanity has realised what I did twenty one years ago, perhaps what Freeman is suggesting could become that positive alternative."

"So what you're saying is rather than unity through involuntary conquest and cultural insinuation," the general summarised, "you are proposing unity via a separate organisation forming a coalition of independent states, whose members are free to join at their own accord?"

"Exactly." Gordon nodded.

The general nodded back. "How long did the United Nations operate?"

"I think it was formed just after World War II, in the mid-1940s," Gordon answered, "and it lasted until the Seven Hour War."

"On a universal scale, maintenance would be more difficult. On the other hand, there'd be much more personnel keeping it stable..." he rested his chin in his palm, contemplating the idea. "Well, while only the leaders who've replaced the Prime Advisors back home can give the green light for such a thing, I think, unless they too have been corrupted by a personal agenda concerning the human race like the Advisors in the basement, something like that could very well make the Universal Union much, much better."

Hearing those words, Gordon beamed. "I'm glad you can see things from my perspective."

"No, Dr. Freeman..." the general corrected. "I'm glad _you _can see things from _our _perspective, despite whatever doubts I may have had thanks to your violent opposition this past year or so." Behind his mask, the general grinned. "You really are as smart as Dr. Breen stressed to me a few hours ago."

Gordon's broad was smile still plastered to his face when he replied, "I'm glad I didn't disappoint."

—

Soon enough, the Gman returned from wherever he'd been, his eyepatch still wrapped tightly around his head and his arm, surprisingly, reattached to the messy stub that had been in its place the last time Gordon had seen him.

Noticing the limb now intact, Gordon smiled and walked over to him. "Hey, you fixed your arm!" he observed cheerfully. "How'd you do it?"

The Gman smiled back. "Quite simply, actually," he pulled off the torn sleeve of his suit jacket — which he hadn't fixed, for whatever reason — and revealed to Gordon the most confusingly horrible thing the physicist had seen that day.

It looked as if his arm had been _welded _back together, with the skin rippled and bubbly as if it were metal that had gone under the immensely hot flame of a blowtorch. His eyes widening in shock, then his lips pursing in an attempt to hold back his repulsion, Gordon looked at his friend in condolence. "What did you do?" he whispered.

The Gman smiled reassuringly, noting Gordon's concern and equal distaste at the crude repairs he'd made to his arm, pulling the torn sleeve back onto his arm. The material, it seemed, had been tailored so well that it didn't slip off when the Gman lowered his arm. "Dr. Freeman, I will divulge no details concerning the matter for the same reason I did not elaborate as to how I sanitised my eyesocket."

"It looks like you melted your skin." Gordon muttered.

The Gman ignored the comment, not wanting to disgust Gordon with the crude medical procedures he had undertaken upon himself, especially since it was rather close to what he'd actually done to himself. "Rest assured I am in no pain, nor did the process cause any." Turning to Dr. Breen and the general, he smiled warmly. "Well, now that Dr. Freeman has returned, there is a matter that he and I would appreciate you two heard out."

Dr. Breen returned the smile, "Gman, Dr. Freeman has already made known your proposal for an organisation that would unite the many nations of the universe under an independent banner, without the need for any one society to conquer another."

The Gman, surprised at the news, turned back to Gordon briefly. "Did he now?" Turning to the general, the Gman raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Has he succeeded in convincing you of the benefits?"

"He certainly has," the general nodded gladly. "Though neither of us have any authority to instate any such organisation, nor do we have access to those who do. Until the Combine evacuation fleet arrives, the only thing we can do is maintain this peaceful coalition between the human race and the Combine forces here on Earth." The general paused, glancing out the windows on the right side of the office. "Of course, as the Belgian Overwatch just demonstrated to us, there will be ignorant soldiers that refuse to see rationally in favour of blind patriotism to the corruption of the Advisors."

"Ah, so you have identified the soldiers?" the Gman inquired. "And they were hostile?"

"Freeman brought back the ranking officer's insignia," Dr. Breen explained. "Apparently, somebody high up in the hierarchy of the Overwatch over there still thinks the Advisors are worth fighting for."

"Wait, I'm not sure I understand this whole thing correctly..." Gordon interjected suddenly. "If the Combine just came here to conquer us and force us into compulsory union with them, then why are soldiers fighting each other? I mean, you didn't exactly conquer us, but your primary goal was unity and that's all settled. So why does it matter who's in political power?"

The general shrugged. "You've seen that we have no tolerance for any form of felonious deed, so some soldiers will stick to that belief and continue their devotion to the legal authority of the Advisors. Others will realise that in staging this undeniably illegal coup we have completed the objective we were given by the Prime Advisors back on the Capital, and therefore they will reject the lower authority of the Advisors in favour of the direct orders of the highest authority."

"So in this case, the end doesn't justify the means." Gordon suggested.

"That's how the Belgian officer that sent the soldiers rotting in the courtyard thinks, anyway." The general agreed. "Those who dedicate themselves to the jurisdiction of our administrator and myself believe otherwise."

"And so this is basically a legal dispute between who should rule."

"Well, yes, if you strip it down to the basics."

Gordon nodded. "Hey, don't get me wrong, it makes sense. Not from the average human's point of view, no, but I've learnt that the Combine aren't exactly human."

Dr. Breen beamed. "As did I, seven hours after they arrived."

Scratching his chin, Gordon nodded again. "Right... how long do we have until this place gets hot?"

"I couldn't say." The general admitted. "Troops might be en route at this very moment. Unfortunately, there's not exactly an army over here ready to hold off an attack, only the hundred odd men I brought over from France and the Swiss guards that joined us after we took over."

"That's a problem..." Gordon agreed. "But the Advisors are still here, right?"

The general nodded. "They've got no way out. Imprisoned in their own conference room. Of course, we're not sending anyone down there in case they try some sort of combined telekinetic attack so we can't terminate them either. They're basically in limbo until we figure out what to do with them."

"So if the enemy wants the Advisors alive, they can't destroy this place, can they?"

"No." The general replied.

"... do you think we should evacuate?"

The general paused. "Perhaps. Actually, Dr. Freeman, that's a rather good idea. Obviously you would return to White Forest... but should I return to France? After all, my people are generally agreeable with my actions... although a minority had to be crushed recently, regrettably. Even still, it will be ripe for invasion, especially if the Belgian officer that sent the unit here has the favour of the populace."

"Why don't you come with the Gman and I to White Forest, along with Dr. Breen?" Gordon suggested. "Romania is the safest place to be when the Combine is the enemy."

"It could also be the most dangerous, if the bordering countries decide to strike."

"Look, the way I see it, White Forest is our best bet. Besides, we've held off entire legions of Overwatch troopers before with only four hundred or so men, two of me and the Gman. With the ceasefire in effect, other people will be flooding to the shelter the country has and that'll bolster our numbers no doubt."

The general, understandably feeling both remorseful and guilty for choosing a safe haven over returning to his country, finally nodded his head. "So be it. I'm ready to leave whenever we need to."

"As am I," Dr. Breen agreed. "I have nothing here to take with me that isn't on my person."

Gordon nodded. "Then let's go. Will the soldiers stay here?"

"I'll give the orders that they prepare for a retreat, should the necessity arise." The general decided.

"Alright."

**White Forest, 12:06 PM**

"Dr. Magnusson," one of the radio operators called over the elderly scientist's comms system, "Dr. Freeman just contacted us, he says he'll be back at White Forest with Dr. Breen and the leader of the Combine coup in about two hours."

Magnusson pressed the button on his intercom, his face breaking a smile. "Excellent. Did he ask if we'd seen his broadcast?"

"I gather he assumed we had, seeing as I didn't react surprised when he told me Breen and another general were coming down."

Magnusson nodded to himself. "Wonderful, thank you."

"Welcome." The faint static in the background cut out, signalling the transmission had been ended.

Reseating himself in his lightly cushioned swivel chair, Dr. Magnusson made no effort to repress his gladness at the news. "It's over..." he whispered to himself, his voice practically shaking with excitement. "Oh, it's over."

And as he sat there, his eyes slowly closing and his smile unwavering, the world suddenly became a hell of a lot worse.

—

A few minutes ago, the Palace of Nations had been in the possession of a relatively empty courtyard, sporting only a beautiful water fountain at the far end, a few mutilated bodies scattered around the foliage near it and a landed Hunter-Chopper around the middle right area. Now this same area was being flooded from the north, with an absolute swarm of Synth dropships suddenly gliding in and descending onto the neat grassy grounds in a swift and organised wing of precision. Within moments of reattaining contact with the ground, troops were hurriedly disembarking, storming toward the grand colonnade marking the entrance to the tremendous building towering high above them.

Soldiers guarding the large double doors leading inside stood their ground, having made rushed transmissions to their Commanding Officer, the French general. Now that he and whoever important was with him had been informed of the situation, it was time for them to take action in response to it.

Despite the blatantly obvious issue that they were horribly outnumbered, the guards used their position up on the colonnade to their advantage, opening fire on the attacking soldiers down on ground level with everything they had. Grenades spiralled through the noontime sky, the minute red LEDs glowing brightly as the handheld bombs arced, fell, bounced and rolled as the opposition advanced, returning fire with relentless bursts of pulse and jacketed lead slugs.

Then, moments after the first explosives had been launched, there came the consequential shower of flame, deafening sound and concussion waves, along with shrapnel from the minority of fragmentation grenades that had joined the standard MK3A2s in the triumphant bombardment of munitions.

Seeing as concussion grenades were more suitably designed for use in enclosed areas rather than sprawling battlefields, the damage they did was a little underwhelming. The frag grenades, on the other hand, were specially created for open warfare of this sort and the vicious barrage of steel shrapnel that they rained upon the enemy was devastatingly powerful.

But there was no time for even the smallest of celebrations, for no matter how effective said explosives were there were just far too many soldiers charging toward the front doors, giving the defenders no time to let up their offensive. Every one of those valiant guards knew that their defeat was inevitable unless they retreated soon, but in spite of this unmistakable knowledge they pressed on, making sure there wasn't a single crack in the rapidly deteriorating shield of limited munitions that they were holding up to their assailants.

It was only a matter of time until that impenetrable safeguard disappeared, however, and when it eventually did every man would run for safety, abandoning his post in the face of sheer overwhelming numbers.

—

"They're here." The general breathed through the thick respirator of his gasmask, turning on his heels and running back up the stairs past the three men with him, "dropships coming from the north, which I'm willing to bet is the delivery service for the main Belgian attack force."

Not wasting any time in following him, Gordon and Dr. Breen chased the officer back the way they'd come, shocked by this sudden revelation. "Already?" Gordon demanded as he hurried back up the stairs. "The soldiers I took care of only arrived here half an hour ago!"

"It'll only take that long to get from one of the southern cities to here," Dr. Breen answered from just beside him. "If they were stationed in Luxembourg it would have taken them even less time."

Gordon gritted his teeth, looking to the Gman for assistance. Confused when he realised the Gman wasn't following them, he stopped and looked back down the stairs. His ethereal friend hadn't moved an inch. "Gman!" Gordon yelled impatiently. "What the hell are you doing, come on!"

"Dr. Freeman," the Gman looked up the stairs at his physicist companion, "I will take care of this."

"But," Gordon looked back up at the others, who had stopped at the top of the stairs. Sighing exasperatedly, Gordon threw his hands up. "OK, go ahead. But, Gman..." he paused, smiling tensely at the guardian, "try not to get killed."

The Gman offered a reassuring smile. "You seem to underestimate my abilities."

"No, it's not that..." Gordon explained, taking a few steps up the stairs as he spoke, "it's just that most people close to me are dead at the moment, and I'd prefer the list didn't get any longer."

Nodding his head empathetically, the Gman looked quickly down the stairs then back up at Gordon. "Worry not, Dr. Freeman. Besides, did you not see how long it took my duplicate to expire?"

That gave Gordon confidence enough. "See you when I see you, Gman."

"Likewise, Dr. Freeman."

And with that, the suited guardian marched down the remainder of the ornate staircase, pulling the torn half of his sleeve off and dismissively dropping it to the ground as he brushed off his lapels and adjusted his tie professionally, his face setting with a hint of determined smugness.

Gordon, on the other hand, followed after Dr. Breen and the general, wherever they were going.

—

"Sir, we've gotta haul ass if we don't wanna die here!" a borderline-hysterical soldier yelled into his mike as his pulse rifle loaded its final energy capsule and he opened fire once more on the impossibly large horde of soldiers as they sprinted across the grounds toward the Palace. Soil was being thrown skywards and grass was churned up as gunfire rained down from above on the attackers, but it was clear that regardless of their oppressive assault the defenders would be overrun shortly.

"It's not over until it's over, soldier!" the officer in charge roared above the pandemonium, throwing his depleted rifle to the ground and whipping out his sidearm, blasting away with hapless arrogance at the closest troops. Quite a few soldiers were now taking cover just below the raised colonnade, down below the guards' line of sight and out of the way of any gunfire. Every so often one of the more audacious soldiers would make a recklessly heroic attempt at undermining their defence by charging up the stairs and spraying ammunition, which had thus far resulted in a quick and lethal takedown and the trooper's limp corpse rolling most of the way back down the way he'd come.

Grenades were out of the question, fortunately, because the colonnade was up too high for the attackers to throw any over from behind cover and moving back far enough to do so would result in a singled out shower of gunfire.

Soon enough, though, they would launch a massive charge up both sets of stairs leading up to the colonnade, the defenders would eventually run out of ammo holding off that surge of desperate soldiers and that would be it.

But until then, they were going to hold their ground and use whatever tools they had in their arsenal to fight this condemned asininity that was their resolute defence.

It was only a matter of ti—

The double doors swung open, gaping wide to reveal a rather formally attired man who was surprisingly without any form of visible armament. With an air of gallant nonchalance he stepped out boldly onto the colonnade, scanning the meagre cluster of men guarding the building as they stared somewhat uncertainly at him.

With a calming smile, he clapped his hands together energetically. "It seems as if my assistance would be essential at present, no?"

One of the soldiers averted his gaze, trying to look down at the crowd of enemy troops below the colonnade to see if they'd realised they were no longer firing. The ranking officer nodded slowly, turning to his men as that one soldier looked back. "Alright, boys, relief is here," he whispered, waving his hand toward the door. His men, still not entirely sure what was going on, obeyed and hurried inside. The officer looked back at the Gman. "You're a Fissionist, aren't you? The Gman that came with Dr. Freeman?"

The Gman nodded in confirmation.

"Right," the officer's tone lightened, the Gman having settled any doubts he'd been feeling, "good luck."

And with that, he rushed in after his men and closed the doors, leaving the Gman alone to rub his hands together in vigorous anticipation and wait for the enemy to make their next move. When they did, he expected them to be quite surprised at the conspicuous absence of soldiers and the even more obvious presence of a suited man not even holding so much as a .22 pistol.

After a few moments of him standing there doing nothing other than wait, a small group of enemy troopers charged up the stairs blazing rifle fire. When they saw the Gman standing there they let up momentarily, confused and possibly even unsure whether they were seeing things right.

Then, in a split second of shocking realisation, one of the soldiers literally screamed "IT'S A GMAN!" and scampered back down the stairs, his comrades following after him in a desperate rush. As the rest of the enemy force heard this cry, the Gman calmly walked after the panicked men and witnessed the mass mobilisation of troops as they ran from cover.

After making his way down the stairs, the majority of the soldiers hiding below the colonnade had broken into a run back into the open area of the courtyard, most of them trying to shoot him down as they went. A few valiant idiots stayed where they were, blasting away with their various automatic weapons.

One soldier decided it would be a good idea to fire a Dark Energy pellet from the underslung launcher of his pulse rifle from long range. The sphere of energy exploded from his rifle, streaking toward the Gman in a dead straight line.

And then, the Gman simply extended his left arm and held his open palm out to the incoming orb, which stopped just inches from the pale skin of his hand. The danger now nonexistent, he swung his arm around to face the soldiers that had stayed behind and released his telekinetic hold on the pellet, causing it to fly from his hand with the same velocity it had had before it had stopped.

The soldiers were obliterated, the ball slamming through their loosely organised ranks and incinerating every minute cell in their densely clad bodies.

After that demonstration of his abilities, the Gman turned back to face the wide open courtyard, filled with landed dropships and thousands of soldiers. There were innumerable multitudes of troops unloading hot lead and pulse rounds at him, with only a small percentage of them actually connecting with his body and sending a satisfactory jet of blood from the wound and the rest merely throwing up dirt or chunks of concrete off the part of the colonnade they'd been hiding below just before.

In the face of this tremendous barrage of gunfire, the Gman simply walked towards it and snapped his fingers.

The closest dropship exploded in a plume of loose dirt and grass, yellowy brown chunks of synthetic material and fire, the soldiers taking cover just in front of it blasted into oblivion as their bodies were shredded by metal and flame. Particulate eruptions of soil were infused with millions of crimson droplets that sprayed forth out of the blazing chaos within the searing epicentre of the blast, staining the smouldering grass dark red as pieces of charred debris and smoky ligaments crashed down around it. And after all this had happened, a wide pillar of hazy smoke rose from the midst of the burning detritus, obscuring the view of anyone behind it and vice versa, though the Gman wasn't all that concerned with seeing past the destruction he'd caused.

This sudden flurry of turmoil was definitely having an effect on the soldiers. Those closest to the explosion simply broke whatever ranks they had organised and ran, not wanting to suffer under the fiery hand of the Fissionist striding unperturbedly toward them. As they ran, among the spreading smoke and fire issuing out from the dirty synthetic remains of the nearby dropship, the rest of the force caught on and most of them decided that they need to find another way inside. The Gman was blocking the colonnade, but perhaps they could circumvent to either one of the building flanks and make a forceful entry through the wall of a relatively secluded area on the lower levels. Maybe they could send a squad-sized recon unit to find a backdoor of some sort, or have them sneak in by themselves and wreck havoc inside while the Gman was occupied outside.

Of course, nobody really wanted the designation of Fissionist distraction and it wouldn't be logistically smart either, seeing as this Gman had just shown he could blow up a dropship and the platoon of soldiers around it like nobody's business. They couldn't face him head on, though, seeing as they'd already showered him with enough munitions to shred one of their armoured personnel carriers and he didn't seem the least bit bothered by it.

While some of the more important officers were discussing what to do as they ran from the slowly advancing guardian, a few soldiers could have sworn they saw something fall off the roof onto the top of the colonnade. Apparently, the Gman also had more munitions durability than a building mostly made of concrete and stone.

Most of the highest ranking soldiers had gathered together to sort out some sort of plan, which at the moment didn't seem like a very fruitful prospect. "Too large a force trying to flank the building would be obvious," one of the colonels hissed desperately, "the best we can hope for is to get all our men in the air and land on the roof or the other side of the building... but God knows how long that would hold him off for, perhaps he'd destroy all of us while in the air."

"Let's get some of our boys in the air," another officer suggested, "and the others can either try and pass by him from both flanks or keep him distracted for as long as possible. Divide and conquer."

The other officers nodded in agreement. "Alright, get some of the men into the dropships..." one of the Majors decided, "I'll take my unit right flank."

"I will take the left." Another officer agreed. "See if we can't beat this bastard."

"Perhaps heavy munitions will have a better chance against him," a second colonel added, "give our dropship gunners rocket launchers, that way some of our birds can execute an aerial assault while the others land on the roof and the men on the ground flank both sides."

"Agreed, let's do this."

The officers moved, yelling for their respective units to fall in and either board the eagerly waiting dropships — who, being sentient creatures, were equally as panicked by the Gman's destructive capabilities — or get into formation and charge for either the left or right flank of the building.

The Gman, only aware that he had scared the crap out of the enemy, continued to pursue them at his slow, calculated pace, wandering through the maze of landed Synths. He was fairly certain they were planning something, but he wasn't the least bit worried what it was, unless it had something to do with dropping a atomic bomb on his head.

See, Fissionists weren't invincible. Immortal, yes, because they suffered no temporal deterioration whatsoever, but they weren't indestructible. Bullets and other similarly sized projectiles might not have posed a threat to the Gman, but his body was susceptible to direct exposure from high, instantaneous releases of energy. In other words, he wasn't immune to direct hits from, say, a high powered concussion grenade. Of course, this was restricted to _direct _exposure, which in a Fissionist's case meant having said susceptibility located inside them, past their abnormally durable flesh and muscle. That meant that he would be entirely unaffected by a nuclear bomb unless he happened to be right at the epicentre of the explosion.

It also explained why his doppelganger had survived being blinded by his own ribs, having part of his spinal column poking out of his neck and experiencing a rather gruesome evisceration where the majority of his intestinal tract had been smothered like so much discarded offal from a disembowelled chicken.

Unfortunately for the Gman, the enemy had a plan very much involving the use of explosives, specifically laser-riding RPGs. As the first dropships made for the heavens, he merely watched their ascent with calm amusement, patiently awaiting the next move in their inane campaign against him and the legislative province he was defending.

After most of the dropships had risen into the air, the Gman saw a few hovering just above him, circling wide around him as the doors of the underslung personnel carriers opened up and gunners took their positions, holding very big and nasty RPG-25s.

And suddenly, the Gman realised that shit had gotten serious. He could survive half a dozen rockets, maybe, before his body was ripped into extremely messy pieces — his mind flashed back to half an hour ago, when his duplicate had been so delightfully blown in half by a grenade launcher in his stomach — but the problem was there were more than half a dozen dropships flying around him, their gunners ready to fire.

His mind was only vaguely aware that there were other Synths flying overhead, going straight past him without so much as a wave goodbye, but his focus right now was on what could potentially mean the end of him.

Just as he made up his mind as to just what the hell he was going to do, the first rocket fired and the chaos commenced...

* * *

**The next chapter, as you can all probably guess, is probably going to be the epic final chapter I've been talking about. So, sit tight, it's coming soon.**


	29. Twenty Eight: Fruition Part Two

**-=Chapter Twenty Eight: Fruition Part Two=-**

**White Forest, 12:17 PM**

"Dr. Magnusson, Dr. Freeman is on the line," one of the radio operators announced from the control room adjacent to Silo 1, where Gordon and Alyx had reunited with Dr. Eli Vance mere hours before his passing. "And by the sounds of it, he's not going to be back here for a while."

Dr. Magnusson, the pessimist inside him firing up, scrambled over to his intercom. "Patch me through to him," he ordered sharply, "I want to hear it straight from his mouth."

"On it, sir."

A few moments later, the intercom was alive with newfound war ambience, the mechanical chatter of gunfire everpresent in the background as Dr. Freeman spoke: _"—owhere and landed in the courtyard. The Gman's taking care of them for the moment, but we just saw a few of the dropships take off and fly closer to the building. There's also two units of soldiers flanking both sides while the Gman's distracted, seeing as there's about eight or so dropships hovering directly above him and it looks like the gunners are going to fi..."_

"Dr. Freeman, are you saying you've been attacked?" Dr. Magnusson demanded.

"_Ah, yes, Dr. Magnusson," _Dr. Freeman answered, somewhat surprised to be talking to Magnusson now, _"Belgian forces, landed about ten minutes ago."_

"That's when you last contacted us."

"_Well, they were probably only fifty kilometres out when I ended the call."_

"Son of a bitch," Magnusson muttered, his grouchy nature returning like it had never left. "Dr. Freeman, should I send reinforcements?"

"_Uh, we should be OK..." _Gordon admitted, _"the Gman's just been attacked, though — enemy rocket gunners in the dropships above him." _A quiet chuckle crackled through the speakers, _"poor bastards, he jumped onto one of them and now he's pulling it apart in midair."_

"How many enemy soldiers are there?"

Freeman exhaled loudly, the hot air hissing static through Magnusson's intercom, _"I don't know, two thousand?"_

Magnusson snorted. That was less than a sixth of what White Forest held off the year before. "How many men do you have?"  
_"The general tells me he only brought about a hundred men," Gordon explained, "so we're tight for soldiers. I'm glad to have the Gman, let me tell you."_

Something exploded on the other end, the blast sounding tinny and screechy through the outdated comms system. _"Oh, shit," _Freeman growled, barely audible over the ambience of screams and intensified gunfire, _"I've gotta go, Magnusson. Don't worry about us; I'll call you guys later!"_

The transmission ended abruptly, silence reclaiming the office in a split second.

"Do you want to do anything?" the radio operator asked his superior anxiously.

Magnusson sighed, pressing the button on his intercom again, "no... I trust Dr. Freeman's capabilities, and his discretion. If he says that they'll be fine, then they'll be fine."

"Alrighty, sir."

The intercom went quiet once more.

—

The explosion that Dr. Magnusson had heard from one and a half thousand kilometres away was the sound of a high-explosive rocket propelled grenade slamming into the back of the Palace of Nations and blowing a sizeable hole in the wall about ten metres from where Gordon and company had been standing, next to the right wall of the room itself.

Seeing as Dr. Breen was the only one unarmed in the immediate area, Gordon and the French general immediately hoisted their weapons and slid slowly over to the smoking hole as gunfire from the small number of nearby guards echoed from over by it. One of the soldiers exploded as the two moved over, his body torn into pieces by a super-fast burst of heavy gunfire from a dropship that seemed to be flying straight for them—

Gordon's eyes widened. "General, get down!" he yelled, shoving the general to the ground as he himself dived to the plaster soiled carpet, the other soldiers also realising what was about to happen and throwing themselves to the ground too.

Two of them narrowly escaped being flattened. One of the troopers and the remains of his bloodily diced comrade, unfortunately, did not. The dropship flew nose first into the hole, the wider sections of its body ripping apart the rest of the cowering wall in a cascade of white dust and flecks of plaster. The wing segments tore into the adjacent room, pulling half of the separating wall from it place and spreading the large chunks that remained all over the expensively carpeted floor.

The two guards scrambled to their feet as the finely ground dust settled, not even bothering to dust off their conspicuously contrasting dark grey fatigues as they backed away from the crashed Synth.

Fortunately for the occupants of the room, the underslung troop carrier had collapsed the floor and was now halfway into the roof of the room below, whatever that room was. The door opened inwards, and the first soldier almost ran into the thin floor that was at chest height right in front of him. Realising that the only way out would be to pull himself up and crawl out between the floor and the underside of the dropship itself, he proceeded to do so and was met with an almost fatal wave of gunfire.

The two remaining guards — who had just opened fire on the hands that had exposed themselves — slipped over to the side of the troop carrier, their steps silent on the soft, plaster covered carpet.

One of the guards pointed at a pocket of his webbing, which contained one of the Overwatch standard-issue MK3A2 concussion grenades. Before the other guard could reach for one of his own, the first raised a hand to his neck and silently made a slitting gesture, signalling not to use them.

It made sense, seeing as a grenade could easily be thrown straight back out and that could cause all sorts of complications. Bullets, on the other hand, could not be returned to the sender unless the ricochet gods commanded so and that was a point in its favour.

The first guard readied his rifle, inching over to the very edge of the troop carrier embedding in the floor before he shoved the muzzle in the doorway and opened fire, spraying the interior with a relentless onslaught of pulse rounds. The soldiers inside screamed as the powerful kick of the energy slugs crashed into their bodies, thumping their corpses and making them dance as they swung and spun like puppets on strings.

The soldier who had been about to pull himself out of the carrier had thrown himself to the floor, looking down from the roof of the room below and noticing a crème plastic desk behind a thick plaster separator directly below him. Desperate to survive, he pulled himself over to this barely wide enough gap and tentatively pulled himself through, falling head first with his arms outstretched onto the desk below, landing with a heavy thud.

His comrades were not so fortunate as to survive.

The guards, having dealt with the threat and unaware someone had escaped, returned to the side of their commander, administrator and long-time enemy.

"There's only one staircase leading to here," Dr. Breen explained grimly, looking at the gigantic Synth now lying lifelessly on the floor, "and they've so conveniently blocked it off." He shrugged, smiling with a tinge of optimism. "Well, I assume they weren't expecting they would fall through the floor upon collision. Now we're safe from the enemy."

The group, having been blocked off from returning the way they'd come, headed through to the next room, which consisted of quite a nice array of furniture including a large desk made out of various synthetic materials and a collection of large chairs.

Gordon, noticing that Dr. Breen didn't even have a sidearm, reached for his revolver. He paused, however, his hand hovering above the holster, and he looked up at Dr. Breen. "You alright with a revolver?"

The French general interjected, "Don't worry, Freeman, I'll give him my sidearm." He offered the USP Match's grip to the elderly administrator, who accepted it somewhat hesitantly. "You know how to operate a handgun, don't you?" the general asked, though he was pretty sure his leader knew at least that much.

Frowning at this apparent underestimation, Dr. Breen pressed the magazine release, slid the loaded magazine into his hand, pulled back the slide of the pistol to check it was empty, reloaded the magazine and pulled back the slide again. "Yes, I do," he replied, a little irritated.

"Right," the general nodded, hoisting his own pulse rifle.

"So what do we do now?" Gordon asked, eager to do something constructive.

"Well... I don't have any plans, to be honest." Dr. Breen admitted, somewhat dishearteningly. "I assumed the general here did."

The general shook his head. "Other than fight off this attack, I can't see much we can do."

Gordon cocked his head, eyeing the general. "Fight off the attack?" he repeated, shaking his head. "General, we've only got around a hundred and fifty men here."

"What do you mean, Freeman?" the general inquired, interested in the physicist's thoughts.

"There's at least two thousand soldiers out there," Gordon reminded the group. "They outnumber us twenty to one! Sure, we've got the Gman, but he's a little busy right now."

Gordon looked out a nearby window, spotting the Gman jumping onto the roof of another dropship as the one he had just been on exploded in midair, sending out a wave of giant shrapnel in all directions, some of the pieces crashing into the ground and spewing up geysers of soil and dirt.

"So, what? You want us to bargain with the enemy or something?" the general asked, trying to get something out of the distracted Dr. Freeman.

"Well, I doubt that would work," Gordon admitted. "I suggest we retreat."

The general scowled. "Dammit, we weren't expecting such a large-scale attack so soon. That's the only reason we were going to retreat in the first place, because we were safe for a while. If we retreated now, the enemy would overrun the building and release the Advisors, and there'd be no end to the chaos they'd cause if given free reign."

"So why don't we destroy them?" Gordon demanded.

"If anyone goes into that room, there's an extremely high chance that their brain will freeze, explode and liquefy in the space of half a second!" the general snapped, rubbing the forehead of his mask with his arm. "It's not like there's some kind of killswitch, the Advisors would never have allowed something like that. They'd have seen it as a big fat incentive to commit insubordination."

"So we can't kill them individually..." Gordon muttered. "Why can't w—"

The door on the other side of the room flew from its hinges, enemy soldiers storming into the doorway and opening fire on the occupants. In the split second they had to frantically throw themselves behind the closest pieces of furniture, Gordon and company returned fire.

Fortunately for them the doorway was very small and completely exposed, plus there was a wall directly behind it. Multiple barrages of gunfire assaulted the vacant doorframe, spraying the pitiful souls standing there with lead and pulse slugs. Blood squirted everywhere, like some kind of high-pressure sprinkler system on overdrive, staining the carpet with relentless torrents of the stuff and painting the wood of the doorframe dark crimson. Eventually, the enemy backed down and left the corpses to lie atop one another as a morbid pile of death in the doorway.

Gordon, breathing hard, thumbed the reload button of his rifle, the automated device cycling the munitions capsules. "They're still there," he hissed, moving quietly from the wooden desk he was crouching behind over to the door they'd just come from, reaching for the handle.

Taking a quick look back at the blood spattered doorway, Gordon was about to get to his feet and head back through to the dropship-occupied room when a soldier poked his rifle around the corner and sprayed a burst of pulse rounds into the room, one of the slugs hitting his square in the shoulder.

Yelping in pain, Gordon dropped to the ground, his sudden exclamation giving renewed confidence to the hostile soldiers, two of them throwing themselves into the doorway and ducking down behind their fallen comrades, spraying the room with gunfire once again.

One of the guards was riddled with shots, having made to move closer to the doorway a moment after the enemy who had shot Gordon had stuck his rifle inside the room. He fell heavily to the floor, little strings of blood flying from his wounds as he hit the ground.

Gordon, impatient to get to safety, pulled a grenade from his webbing and pulled out the pin, pressing down the safety primer with his thumb as he cautiously poked his head around the corner of the desk. One of the soldiers spotted him and opened fire, Gordon pulling his head back in sharply. Now aware that their attention was on the spot his head had just been, he quickly crawled over to the other side of the desk, which was up against the wall. Resting against the wall, he calmly tossed the explosive over the top, into the doorway that he was pretty sure was directly opposite where he was right now.

Sure enough, the explosive flew into the doorway, bouncing off the wall behind the soldiers and rolling up to them, just lightly tapping the sole of one of their boots.

Then it exploded.

Within the tight space between the other side of the far wall and the separator wall in the next room over, the concussion grenade's power was extremely concentrated. The blast tore limbs off, shredded flesh and muscle and peeled away exposed bone matter. Clothing that didn't get blown off caught fire, the hard plastic of the soldiers' masks melting and fusing to the pale skin underneath. The two soldiers in the doorway simply split in half at their abdomens, their lower spine shattering inside them and their torsos flying from their eviscerated waist, flying into the room they were attacking and bouncing across the carpet, leaving a thick trail of blood and smothered viscera that now resembled baby food in their wake.

Convinced the threat was now gone, Gordon got slowly to his feet, staring at the disgusting lumps of meat that had once been the torsos of two Overwatch soldiers lying not a metre from him. The other three got to their feet also, looking at the body parts with repulsion.

"They're inside the building," the general whispered, shaking his head. He sighed, looking at the gore dripping from the charred doorframe. "They'll be more soldiers that way, and we can't go back through the way we came."

Gordon turned back to the doorway they'd come through, looking back inside. Turning on his heels, he headed back through, looking at the giant hole beneath the crashed Synth's troop carrier. "Reckon someone could squeeze through that gap?" he asked as the general stopped beside him, gesturing toward the split plaster and loose threads of carpet that had once been the floor.

The general shrugged. "I don't see why not." He snorted, nodding at the large hole the synthetic creature had smashed through, "it's a better idea than dropping the five storeys between us and the ground."

Gordon smiled at the dry comment, looking out the yawning hole a few metres away. "Guess you're right," he agreed, moving over to the side of the dropship and kneeling down beside it, examining the gap between it and the intact remains of the floor. "Yeah, it should be wide enough," Gordon nodded to himself, putting both arms in as a rough measurement. He stood back up, looking at the general. "You coming?"

The general took a moment to think about it. "Look, all three of us need to stay alive until the Combine can get us out of here, and the earliest they're coming is the middle of next year. I want to fight like you wouldn't believe, but running right into the fray isn't going to be good for my chances."

Gordon shrugged. "I'm doing it."

"Yeah, but I don't have a suit like you... or any of that mental augmentation your Gman pal was talking to us about."

Having heard the Gman talk briefly about the subject before, Gordon didn't bother asking for details on the matter. He just nodded confidently. "Guess you're right," he agreed lightly, "so what are you and Dr. Breen going to do?"

This time, the general shrugged. "Set up some defences here, use the furniture in the next room as a barricade for whoever decides to come mess with us. Hey, we'll brainstorm some ideas as to how we're going to fix those Advisors up right."

"As in, kill them." Gordon added.

The general nodded slowly. "Exactly."

Gordon smiled, extending a hand to the general. "You know something, general?" he asked the officer as they shook, "you're not so bad."

The general laughed, gripping Gordon's hand tightly, "likewise, Dr. Freeman."

Gordon nodded, turning back to the gap he was about to slide himself through. "See you later, then." He muttered, sitting himself down and sliding his legs into the gap

"I don't doubt it," the general replied heartily, watching Freeman eagerly while silently anticipating something worthy of a good laugh to happen.

Carefully holding onto the ledge he had been sitting on, Gordon slowly and cautiously lowered himself into the gap, realising all too late that he needed to let go of the ledge and fall the two metres to the floor.

"Come on, Freeman," the general coaxed jokingly, laughing from above. "What are you waiting for?"

Gordon, scolding himself silently for his lack of foresight, let go of the ledge and fell the two metres to the ground. Granted, it wasn't that high, but the fact that he had been gripping the ledge in what was one the most awkward ways possible hadn't exactly helped.

Fortunately he only felt the force of the impact for a few seconds afterwards, much to the expectant general's dismay. "Oh, come on, Freeman, where was the entertainment in that?"

"I'm here to blow Combine heads off," Gordon answered coolly, "not to amuse them."

And with that, he unslung his pulse rifle and took off out of the general's sight.

—

If there was one word that could be used to describe the end result of a Fissionist operation in the field, it would be _destruction_. The entire courtyard had been redesigned to highlight the annihilation that war painted like a muddy child in a spotless white room, the key pieces of the artwork comprising of disfigured metal debris, upturned dirt and moist soil along with brightly glowing spot fires and smouldering grass.

In the middle of this canvas of devastation stood the virtuoso, manifest in all his creative glory and observing the yield of his cataclysmic talent: a dirty, bloodstained man in a suit jacket and tie.

Smiling thinly through the specks of grime on his face, he started on his way back through the trail of ruin caused by his hand. High above him stood the Palace's colonnade, towering and impressive even through the faint smokescreen swirling into the bright azure of the midday sky.

As he passed through his forsaken handiwork, his business-style dress shoes treading lightly on what little grass remained undamaged, he looked up at the roof of the main building, smiling to himself as he thought about the discover whoever was up there would make.

A hideously mutilated body and gallons of blood to boot never made for a pretty picture, no matter where you were from.

Passing what could be called the edge of his canvas, the boundary of his artwork on the easel that was the courtyard, he could see the stairs leading up to the colonnade and a few pieces of contributing art from the guards that had preceded him...

And one little detail that didn't fit with his artistic vision.

The Gman's remaining eye widened, realising immediately who this blotch of paint on his masterpiece was.

His duplicate, having apparently pulled himself off the roof, was dragging himself down the stairs toward him.

—

The door slammed open, bouncing off the wall and almost hitting the bespectacled man running through in retaliation. Gordon, his pulse rifle hoisted high and adrenaline pumping through his veins, hurriedly scanned the room for anyone. Just like the last rooms he'd barged into, it was entirely vacant. Apparently the soldiers hadn't made much progress yet.

Pausing briefly to catch his breath, Gordon moved over to the window on the left side of the room and peered out at the courtyard. He was nearly directly in front of it, and that meant he was almost back at the main hall where he'd broadcast with the general.

That hall was also right in front of the Conference Room, and the Advisor chamber tunnelling deep into the ground below.

Gordon could see the Gman walking back toward the colonnade, and the gigantic trail of destruction he'd left in his wake. _There's enough scrap metal smouldering in the courtyard to build a small airliner! _He thought to himself incredulously — while smiling, despite himself.

Eager to get his attention, Gordon was about to smash the window with the butt of his rifle and call out to him, but he noticed that his Fissionist friend had stopped what appeared to be a few metres from the colonnade, judging by what he could see. Apparently, something was wrong.

Curious to know what the Gman was seeing, he ran for the door and charged through, running into the adjacent room — empty, as he had expected — and, without even breaking his stride, bore down on the final door between him and the main hall with almost palpable ferocity, smashing it open with his shoulder.

And then the roof exploded.

It was absolutely breathtaking, and that wasn't only in the literal sense resulting from the insurmountable shower of plaster dust and ground-up masonry that forced Gordon to hold his breath and shield his eyes. Watching from the fourth floor, Gordon gazed at the titanic slab of circular stone, spanning about the same length as a single-storey house and around half the thickness, as it simply broke off from the beautifully embellished ceiling and came crashing down into the middle of the room, splitting into multiple chunks of rock and plaster and leaving a colossal hole gaping open in the roof. Sunlight flooded in from outside, providing adequate lighting replacement for the dozens of shattered globes now scattered across the plaster coated floor. Multiple soldiers poked their heads in over the edge of this newly created opening, giving Gordon a vivid flashback to that day thirteen months ago when he had fiercely defended the secondary silo at White Forest from the attacking Combine forces.

The only difference was that there were no Advisors up there on the roof this time. Relieved by this knowledge, Gordon focused on the matter at hand: enemy soldiers right above him, possibly outfitted with rappelling equipment so that they cou...

..._and there we go, _Gordon thought to himself as the first of multiple thick black ropes were thrown down into the hall, the ends dangling barely a metre above what little of ornamental terrazzo hadn't been veiled by the huge chunk of masonry now lying in the middle of it.

Gordon hurriedly checked his rifle ammo, satisfied by the complete thirty rounds remaining in the munitions capsule, and braced the stock against his shoulder, lining up the sights with the tops of the rappelling ropes as the few soldiers up top saw him readying his weapon and backed down.

And then he waited.

Of course, the enemy wasn't entirely comprised of idiots, and that was unfortunate for Dr. Freeman. About ten seconds after he'd lined up his sights a gun barrel pointed in from above and began spewing bright flashes of fire from its muzzle, multiple resonating ricochets forcing Gordon to cringe and duck instinctively at the sound of high-velocity slugs colliding with metal and wall nearby.

Gordon backed into the doorway right behind him, growling under his breath through gritted teeth at the situation. Taking a second to calculate the chances of him getting hit while whoever it was up there sprayed inaccurately at him and the even more unlikely scenario of the highly improbable bullet impact being fatal when he was wearing powered armour, Gordon rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders and broke into a run.

Despite being entirely aware that luck was merely a relative conception of positive coincidence, Gordon couldn't help but feel his had dried up a bit when he felt something crash into his shoulder and spray hot sticky blood all over the railing nearby. The impact reminded him that he wasn't exactly sure what he was trying to accomplish other than to stop the people shooting him from getting into the building, but he kept running anyway. Besides, the soldiers probably had no idea they'd hit him, unless someone was watching.

Afraid he might have jinxed himself, his head snapped up and looked at the bright hole in the roof, thankful that nobody's nosy head was looking down at him. The soldier up there had stopped spraying and was probably reloading, but Gordon was out of his range anyway so it didn't really matter.

Gordon reached the back wall of the hall, the side opposite the colonnade he and the Gman had been ushered through a few hours ago. They had been on the bottom floor then, and he vaguely remembered going up two flights of stairs not in the main hall to reach Dr. Breen's office, which was located on the third floor.

The staircases here in the main hall were up against the back wall, where Gordon was right now. There were two of them, one on either side that led down from the fifth floor all the way to the second floor, where they stopped and joined into a single staircase leading to the first floor, directly opposite the three sets of double doors on the other side of the hall.

Gordon took another glance up at the hole in the roof before he bolted down the stairs, taking them almost three at a time as his legs pounded the steps and his rifle bounced around uncontrollably in his hands. As he approached the second floor, he spotted soldiers running out from somewhere over to the left side of the room, behind the staircase. They spotted the huge piece of roof lying on the floor and immediately they looked at the sky, hoisting their own rifles.

_These guys are friends,_ Gordon realised. _Shit, I was two seconds away from shooting them!_

Gordon, watching as a few of the soldiers opened fire on the roof, called out to them. "Hey!"

The troopers snapped their attentive heads around, noticing the physicist standing at the top of the second floor staircase. "Dr. Freeman!" one of the soldiers yelled back, waving his hand as an affirmative greeting. "You here to help us?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you could cover me," Gordon admitted, nodding at the doors to the colonnade, "the Fissionist Gman is out there and I think something's wrong. Mind if you keep the guys up on the roof occupied while I run across?"

"Sure thing," the soldier nodded, raising his rifle.

Gordon nodded his thanks, looking up at the roof before he bolted down the stairs and across the middle of the room, onto and across the large concrete slab of disembodied roof — which, having caught a fleeting glimpse of it, boasted a rather large blood splatter around the middle. When he was about two thirds of the way across gunfire erupted from above him, which was quickly met by the scampering of feet and retaliative fire from behind him. Gordon heard the bullets hit their mark, and a few moments later he heard a dull thump signalling a body had fallen to the floor.

Looking back at the soldiers, he waved and smiled. "Thanks!"

The soldiers waved back as Gordon spun back around and headed out onto the colonnade.

—

The Gman slowly circled his twin, cautiously making step after step toward the other set of stairs leading inside. His doppelganger was about as agile as a snail that had undergone crude frontal lobotomy, but that didn't mean his destructive capacity would be in any way suppressed and that was why the Gman had to keep a wary eye on his twin.

Unfortunately, he only had one left.

His duplicate was in an awful state: there was a giant bone jutting out of his neck, the skin sliding up and down it as his spine moved while he dragged himself along the soft grass, not to mention his eyes were dried chunks of pale mush pasted to the walls of his rib-impaled orbital bones and everything from his lower abdomen down was missing, save for a squashed intestine dragging along behind him and a few strings of moist quivering tendons.

Despite all this he was somehow able to belligerently claw his way toward the Gman, who he was somehow able to sense through some form of sensory perception other than his nonexistent vision.

The Gman, though formulating some sort of plan in his mind, honestly had no solid idea what to do. His twin might be anticipating he make a sudden move of some sort, or he might just be waiting to launch an attack. Either way, the Gman couldn't really brace himself for the impending attack because he wasn't sure when it was going to happen.

Moving ever so slowly, the Gman put his foot on the first step of the right-side staircase, keeping his unwavering gaze steady as he did so. Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming from somewhere up on the colonnade. Hoping his duplicate was oblivious to the matter, he made no physical reaction to the faint sound.

The footsteps stopped a few moments later, but still the Gman held back his desire to look at who it was.

Then his doppelganger's body was riddled with pulse rounds, his eviscerated torso spasming from the bombardment and his arms waving limply around in the air. The Gman then broke his gaze and snapped his head up to see the attacker, who he was less-than-surprised to find was none other than Gordon Freeman.

That was when his twin made him move.

He rolled out of Gordon's range so that his body was pressing against the concrete elevation the colonnade resided upon before reaching up and grabbing onto its edge. Without so much as a pause he hoisted himself up and over, swinging what remained of his body up with stunning agility.

The Gman, now observing his duplicate was almost identical to a superhuman paraplegic — except for the fact his paralysed limbs had been crudely amputated — realised that Gordon was pretty much gone unless he did something in two seconds. In a desperate effort to save the handpicked saviour of the Earth, the Gman threw himself up onto the colonnade and dived onto his doppelganger, bodyslamming the crawling mess of a body and grabbing a tuft of bloodied hair on the back of his head. Without a shred of remorse, he slammed the creature's head down into the concrete, absolutely obliterating any facial characteristics one would associate with a human being and replacing them with ones people would compare to a face gone through an industrial fan.

His face wasn't just squashed, it was _flattened, _like a grape under a hundred-kilo weight. The cartilage in his nose was thrust violently back into his skull, puncturing the middle of his frontal lobe and spraying a feral clear liquid out into the spreading pool of blood under his lifeless head. His cheek bones, his jaw and even the front of his cranium were completely destroyed, shattering inside his head and flattening along with every other part of his face. The two rib bones in his eyesockets were thrust even deeper into his head, stabbing his brain with identical bloody points.

If someone had laid a spirit level on the red mush that had once been his face, the bubble would have rested in the exact centre. It was perfectly flat, incorrigible in its horizontality, and the Gman simply let go of his hair and stood up, brushing himself off and shaking his head. "You could have been killed, Dr. Fre—"

A bloody hand lashed out at the guardian, interrupting him midsentence. Gordon jumped back in shock, staring in horror as the faceless, legless, offal-trailing carcass tightened its grip on the Gman's leg, grimy nails drawing blood that ran down his leg and pooled around his shoe.

And for the first time for as long as Gordon could remember, the Gman lost it.

His eyes thinned spitefully, his face contorted in rage and his teeth gritted in unadulterated fury. Wrenching his leg back in an attempt to free himself of his duplicate's grasp, he instead only succeeded in pulling it closer. As his other hand waved around, blindly trying to grab his other leg, the Gman raised his leg and slammed the thick sole of his shoe down on his hand, smothering it and reducing it to disembodied pulp.

After that, he raised the bloody sole once more and stamped on his twin's head, crushing the already mutilated skull completely and leaving a gigantic dent in his head as if it had been an apple and he had carelessly dropped it.

But he wasn't satisfied with that. Raising his leg a third time, he brought his shoe down again, the sole connecting with the dented skull and _bursting _it open, the sides simply giving way and flattening, the ears spouting out torrents of blood and clear fluid as they too depressed like the thin skin of a deflating balloon. Shards of cranium jutted out of the crushed skull, one of the ribs the Gman had shoved in the pitiful duplicate's eyes poking through out the back of his head.

The hand released its grip on his other foot, and the Gman swiftly bent down, grabbed the disfigured, faceless skull by its gushing ears with one hand and the spine-impaled wrinkled neck with his other and ripped his head clean off, tearing the weakened skin of his neck off entirely and pulling what remained of his damaged spinal column out of his body. The entire thing simply slid out of his decapitated neck like a bony snake shedding an oversized skin, surprisingly without too much spilling of blood. Had Gordon not blasted his waist into oblivion during their last encounter, the huge snake of vertebrae would have been slightly longer.

Then the Gman threw what some might call a trophy over the edge of the colonnade and let go of his undeniably dead doppelganger's neck, leaving the drained corpse to fall to the ground with a dull thud.

Looking at this hideous mess, the Gman turned to see if Gordon was alright. Spotting the physicist a few metres behind him, he realised his eyes were fixated on the mess he had created beneath him, "Dr. Freeman..." the Gman began, trying to rectify the fruit of his anger, before Gordon fell to his knees and threw up all over the colonnade, bright green stomach acids pouring out all over the concrete.

Heaving weakly, Gordon looked up at the Gman, his eyes thin and his nose twitching. The Gman, without saying a word, ran over and helped him to his feet, "I apologise," he muttered remorsefully. "I allowed myself to be surmounted by my emotions... I wish you did not have to see that."

"No..." Gordon whispered, his voice shaking. "No, it... it's OK. He would have done that to me if you hadn't stopped him."

The Gman didn't try anything further to justify his actions, other than to help Gordon steady himself in silence. "Had you not come, Dr. Freeman," the Gman started slowly, "I may not have had an opportunity to stop him, and for that I am grateful."

Gordon spat a glob of vomit diluted with saliva onto the ground. "S'alright," he mumbled, the words joining into a single syllable on his tongue. "Ugh, man, that was bad..."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Gordon nodded slowly, straightening up a little and blinking. "How about you?"

The Gman almost laughed. "I have sustained no injury demanding intervention on my part."

"Good." Gordon smiled thinly. "So, you're going to help us kick these Combine assholes back to Belgium?"

The Gman nodded, returning the smile. "Absolutely."

And with that, they walked back inside and returned to the fray.

* * *

**Uh, yeah... sorry to disappoint everyone who was waiting for the conclusion, but I realised after I'd published the last chapter that there's at least two more chapters to go, possibly even three, and the epilogue. Of course, I hope nobody reading wants me to hurry up and finish the damn thing... besides, half this story was talking, so I'm trying to make up for it with what could be two epic battles... and a satisfying conclusion.**

**Partially off topic, I'm sorry if I just turned the entire universe off with that last bit. Believe me, I'm not really a psychotic maniac with a craving for excessive gore, I just have a knack for writing the stuff and I like to do things differently from everyone else (if that hasn't become obvious yet). Besides, there's much worse stuff out there, it's just nobody's put it into written words before.  
**

**Completely off topic, if you haven't seen Inception yet... why the hell are you reading my crap? No, seriously, get off your computer or mobile or whatever you're reading this from and buy a ticket before the damn thing stops screening. If you like this, then you will LOVE Inception. A suggestion, though: don't go with friends, unless you don't usually buy heaps of food from the supermarket beforehand and share it around during the movie. You have to pay pretty close attention to everything in the beginning and it will make sense in the end. Me, I had to pass food back and forth a line of like eight friends I was in the middle of without taking my eyes off the screen, so fortunately I didn't miss anything, but I wouldn't recommend anyone try to replicate the situation.  
**


	30. Twenty Nine: Fruition Part Three

**-=Chapter Twenty Nine: Fruition Part Three=-**

**Palace of Nations, 12:37 PM**

"It's been a while since anyone's fired anything," the ranking officer in the unit that had met Gordon in the main hall explained, gazing up at the giant hole in the roof, spewing light in a manner similar to that of an celestial beam that would cause some sort of divine epiphany, "they know we're down here... they're just not eager to get killed."

Gordon nodded, entirely able to relate. He looked back at the Gman, who was also staring up at the yawning gap in the roof. "I took the ventilation system to the roof when I had to take out Shephard, so I could get up there and take the sol..." he paused midsentence, something occurring to him. "Hang on," Gordon frowned suddenly, looking up at the hole too. "Gman, didn't you smash through the roof when I was being attacked earlier?"

The Gman didn't look down, but a thin smile slowly crossed his lips. "Indeed I did, Dr. Freeman."

"Where's the hole?"

His smile lessened, slowly changing into a frown. He looked down at Gordon's inquisitive face. "Are you suggesting—"

The guardian didn't get the chance to finish his sentence, because somebody started shooting at them from the right side of the room, up on the fifth floor. Cursing under his breath, the officer called to his men, waving at the stairs. His men, fluent in military hand gestures, stormed toward the stairs.

"It appears you jinxed this situation, Dr. Freeman," the Gman observed, his tone hinting dryness.

Gordon looked up at the troopers in the doorway, fifteen metres above them. "I was actually wondering if I could get up there the same way," he muttered, raising his pulse rifle and lining up the sights with the clearest soldier, thumbing off a single shot. Having expected something of the sort happening, the energy slug slammed into the soldier's shoulder, knocking him off balance and almost tipping him over the edge, the slightly taller-than-average safety rail saving him from a nasty death.

Gordon fired another shot, the angled shot ripping through the light combat armour on his chest and into his left lung. With a garbled yelp of pain that Gordon could only just hear from the ground, the soldier's barely conscious form flipped over the edge of the railing.

Before his body hit the ground, Gordon was already charging up the stairs, the Gman following suit calmly. "The officer's account would suggest the soldiers' absence from around the hole has been for at least a few minutes, enforced by this recent arrival of enemy units." the Gman theorised.

Gordon took in his detailed estimation, quietly processing it before fling it away in his 'that's lovely, I'm busy' mental cabinet. "How many dropships did you see fly over to the roof?"

The Gman shrugged from behind Gordon as they reached the third floor. "There were dozens of the things residing in the courtyard at the time of my arrival there," he explained softly, "perhaps thirty, forty maybe?"

"Dammit," Gordon muttered exasperatedly, "that means hundreds of troops!"

"Hopefully, they'll all be restricted to the right wing of the building, unless they get past our men." The Gman reminded him as they reached the fourth floor, looking up the stairs at the squad of Swiss soldiers firing into the doorway on the fifth floor. A small trickle of blood was running down the ornate stairs, its source the cracked mask of one of the guards that appeared to have been killed and fallen halfway back down the stairs.

Gordon passed the body, looking back at the Gman. "You ready?" he asked.

The Fissionist smiled. That was all Gordon needed. Reaching the top of the stairs, Gordon joined the squad of guards, scanning the large corridor beyond: there were soldiers everywhere, taking cover behind thick marble pillars, or in doorways whose doors had been thrown wide. Quite a substantial number of corpses littered the floor, which gave Gordon encouragement like you wouldn't believe. Around the middle, there appeared to be about half a dozen thick ropes hanging from the roof.

Suddenly, something moved out of the corner of his eye. Snapping his head around to look at what it was, he saw the fluttering material of the Gman's dark blue suit flash past him, the owner having vaulted himself over the staircase's left safety rail and literally ran across the adjacent wall for a few seconds before throwing himself into the doorway the Swiss soldiers were covering and raining down hellfire on the occupants.

It was absolute eyecandy for Gordon: the Gman grabbed a nearby soldier by the arm and wrapped his dirty pianist-esque fingers around the troopers snugly gloved hand, which was holding the pistol grip of his rifle. A split second later, the Gman was firing the soldier's gun while it was still in his hand, spraying the room with pulse rounds. Soldiers screamed and dived for safety, others had the delight of watching their bodies tear apart from relentless fire, others still tried in vain to return fire.

When the gun ran out of ammo, it's wielder yelling out in horror, the Gman snapped his arm and elbowed him in the face. His rifle clattered to the ground and the Gman kicked it into a soldier just about to open fire on him, the rifle sliding across the relatively frictionless floor and smacking into the surprised soldier's boots, the sheer force of the Gman's powerful kick flipping him forwards onto his stomach. The butt of the rifle smashed into the open door behind the incapacitated trooper, swinging it shut violently and inadvertently slamming it into the soldier behind the one now lying on the ground, winding him and knocking him to the ground also.

The Gman then jumped into the wall right beside him, pushing himself off it with his feet toward the closest pillar, which he effortlessly swung around and kicked the horrified soldier behind it in the mouth, his body flying backwards through the large glass window behind him, his body tumbling through the air as he plummeted to the ground.

Momentum still carrying him, the Gman let go of the pillar and flew through the shattered window after the unfortunate soldier. Suddenly, the corridor was silent, the hostile occupants gazing breathlessly at the vacant windowframe that their assailant had just flown through, wondering if that really wa—

The next window across exploded into a million glittering fragments that tinkled metallically as they littered the floor and the Gman jumped through, charging towards the closest group of soldiers. The attacking soldiers began retreating back through the doorway they'd come through as the Gman advanced on them, grabbing whoever was in his range and punching them out, often fracturing their skulls or their sternums, depending on where he hit them.

Soldiers behind him tried to shoot him down, but they were quite easily dispatched by the Swiss troopers and Dr. Freeman, who they'd all apparently forgotten about.

Realising that they now had the upper hand, the aforementioned soldiers entered the corridor calmly, following after the Gman with an air of nonchalance one would expect from a group of friends on a morning stroll. Occasionally, one of the more audacious soldiers would thumb off a burst of gunfire at a lingering enemy, leaving his body to drop to the floor along with his downed comrades.

Eventually, the Gman reached the end of the corridor, stopping in the doorway and watching as the enemy retreated further into the complex. He turned around, nodding at the men following behind. "I've detained the majority of the force. The rest have intelligently decided that pugnacity is not the optimal approach when I am their enemy."

"And so they should," Gordon agreed, lowering his rifle smugly, patting the Gman on the shoulder, "nice job, by the way."

The Gman nodded his gratitude for the compliment. "Likewise, Dr. Freeman; you yourself are not undeserving of appreciation."

Gordon chortled softly, looking around at the aftermath of the battle. "That wasn't too hard. They barely got a shot at you."

"No need to thank us," the Swiss officer mumbled.

Gordon turned to him, smiling warmly. "Sorry, lieutenant. I didn't mean to exclude you or anything, understand..."

"Don't worry, Freeman," the lieutenant waved a glove hand lightly, "I was only joking. It's our job."

Nodding slowly, Gordon looked back at the Gman. "Right. I'll take the vents to the roof. You follow those guys, see if you can finish them off, eh?"

The Gman smiled, nodding back. "It would be a pleasure, Dr. Freeman."

"I'm sure it would." Gordon laughed, turning to the Swiss troopers. "How about you? You wanna come with me or the Gmam?"

The officer chuckled quietly. "Either way, we have to fight."

Gordon smiled softly. "Pick your poison."

"We'll go with you, Freeman." The lieutenant decided, looking at his men, who nodded affirmatively. "Besides, the Fissionist here doesn't look like he needs help taking on an entire battalion!"

Gordon nodded. "Alright. Will you be alright to come in the vents?"

The officer snorted. "Why wouldn't we?"

"They're not exactly nice."

"Neither is fighting our fellow men over who rules the Overwatch. Come on, let's go."

Gordon couldn't argue with that.

—

Behind them lay the lifeless dropship.

Before them lay an overturned table.

Beyond them lay an empty doorway.

Inside his mask, the general's eyes twitched, his respirator rasping softly as he inhaled. His pulse rifle was resting on the flipped table, its muzzle staring down the doorway intrepidly.

Dr. Breen knelt beside him, unfortunate enough to have his face exposed to the two Overwatch soldiers around him. A drip of perspiration snaked ever so slowly down the side of his face, touching the top of his cheek gently and pausing in its eventual descent. He too was balancing his weapon on the table, resting the underside of the general's USP Match on the edge.

The other soldier was beside him, his breathing almost equal to that of his masked superior and his emotions identically veiled. Unlike the general, h—

A soldier ran through the doorway, holding a pulse rifle up and snapping it around the room. By the time his eyes spotted the table and the twitchy men behind it, he'd already been assaulted with gunfire. His body torn by the reflexive blast of fire, he dropped lifelessly to the ground and lay still.

His rifle clattered noisily to the floor.

The three men knew what was coming next, whether it was conscious and screaming in their head or buried underneath the fragile denial of their subconscious that allowed the aroma of insecurity to waft through into their minds: others would follow.

Dr. Breen's breathing deepened, obviously unaccustomed to on-the-field-in-your-face combat that he had now been shoehorned into. He was on the verge of panting like a dehydrated dog, minus the lolling tongue, and the drip of sweat had finally run down to the bottom of his jaw. Nervously, he hurried to wipe it away with his gun arm, seeing as he still only had one — something he was damning more and more with every passing second. "How good a defence will this table give us?"

The general didn't bother looking over at him when he replied, "pulse rounds shouldn't do much... lead slugs, on the other hand, are going to shred it."

Not even trying to hide his apprehension, Dr. Breen swallowed. "Let's just hope they've all got pulse rifles, then."

Something flew into the room, clinking metallically as it bounced along the ground nearby.

Dr. Breen's eyes widened.

The general wasted no time in pulling his administrator to the ground, covering him as the remaining guard got to his feet and shoved the table across the floor into the grenade's path, effectively covering it up and suppressing the blast.

The following explosion was absolutely deafening and it sprayed shrapnel-like splinters all over the room from the destroyed table, but it didn't actually do any direct damage to the room's defenders. "Come on," the general swung his legs into the gap Freeman had gone through a quarter of an hour before, "we're leaving."

Dr. Breen followed after him, eager to get out of danger as soon as he could. The last guard stayed up there a few moments longer, spraying the doorway with gunfire just for good measure, before he too climbed into the gap and dropped down onto the fourth floor.

Looking up, he saw Dr. Breen brushing himself off as he got to his feet. "Now what?" he asked, still holding the general's sidearm with his single arm.

The general sighed loudly, unsure of what to do. "We didn't hold out very long..." he muttered. "Alright, I'm going to try and contact some of my men, see if we can organise a position to regroup at. I'm thinking the main hall, if the enemy hasn't already taken it."

"I assume that's where Dr. Freeman went," the guard agreed, "if he isn't still there."

Dr. Breen nodded. "That would give ample defence to the Advisor Conference Room, should we gather enough soldiers."

"Don't worry," the general reassured him, searching his allocated radio channels for communications activity, "we will."

—

The roof was absolutely covered in dropships. Any which way you looked, there'd be a dozen yellowy brown Synths wiggling their metal antennae at you, their large azure sensor globes rolling around in their synthetic orbits. Soldiers paraded through this myriad of aircraft, often marching in two lines with numbers equal to that of a small platoon. Apparently, they were expecting the defence to launch some sort of attack on the roof and reclaim it.

Which was smart, because that was exactly what Dr. Freeman and his crew of Swiss guards were there for.

Gordon had crawled out of the airvent, seeing as it was on a large protrusion jutting out of the roof that faced away from the courtyard, and was now ever-so-cautiously peering around this chunk of cosmetic masonry for any approaching soldiers.

From behind him, he heard somebody rasping softly. Barely able to decipher words, he realised it was the lieutenant talking into his helmet-mike. He dismissed it, concluding that a reprimand would probably be louder than just letting him whisper into his radio.

Subconsciously, he listened in on the hushed conversation. "That's right, sir," the lieutenant whispered almost inaudibly, "we cleared out the main hall."

The lieutenant paused, obviously listening to his superior's reply — Gordon would bet any money it was the French general on the other end. "Yes sir."

Another pause.

"Sir, we're on the roof with Dr. Freeman. I can't see them at the moment, but I know there's one hell of a dropship collection up here."

One final pause, before the lieutenant nodded, "yes sir." He replied, ending the transmission. Gordon turned around, looking at the lieutenant expectantly. "Yes?" the officer inquired softly.

"What was that about?" Gordon asked, equally as quiet.

"The French general is getting the men to regroup in the main hall, where we just were," the officer explained, "I told him we cleaned it out and that we were up here."

Gordon nodded. "Alright. Are your boys ready?"

The lieutenant nodded. Gordon, keeping with this new silence, put his thumbs up approvingly. The lieutenant, placing his gloved palms on the rough surface of the roof, carefully eased himself out of the vent.

After he was done his subordinates followed in identical manner, and just as quietly. Once all four of them had joined their commander, Gordon took another look around the corner. There was a dropship right behind the block of stone they were all behind. Calling on his memory, Gordon was pretty sure that behind it would be another block of concrete, the one he and Shephard had edged around a few hours ago.

Looking back at the five soldiers, Gordon waved them closer. "Split up," he whispered to them, "if we go all together, you can bet that we'll get ambushed. If you've got silencers, make sure you use them. Otherwise..." Gordon paused, remembering that he was part of the non-suppressed weapon group, "well, just try and take them out quietly."

"Fireteams or smaller?" the lieutenant asked, seeing as he hadn't seen the enemy himself yet.

Gordon frowned. "Uh, no. Platoon sized units. Twelve men each."

The officer snorted gently. "To hell with quiet, Freeman. If we don't have silencers, what are we gonna do, smack all twelve of them over the head and hope no one hears them hit the ground?"

"Uh..."

"Even if we do have them, they'll hear suppressed fire anyway."

Gordon threw his arms into the air. "Alright. Screw it. Noisy runaround craziness it is."

Though he couldn't see it, Gordon was convinced the lieutenant was smiling behind him mask. "You got it."

The five soldiers climbed to their feet, cocking their rifles and rushing around the corner. Almost immediately, gunfire erupted and garbled screams exploded out above the mechanical rattle of the Swiss troopers' pulse rifles.

Gordon sighed, heading around the corner too. Right in front of him were the soldiers, standing around the back of a nearby dropship and firing at the Belgian soldiers that were randomly scrambling through the maze of landed Synths. Shaking his head, Gordon lowered his rifle and plucked a grenade from his webbing, ripping the pin out with his teeth and tossing it into the fray. The cylindrical explosive bounced off one of the dropship's chunky armour, falling into the gap between it and the Synth in front of it. A moment later, two soldiers ran from that same spot, one of which was instantly gunned down by the Swiss soldiers.

Looking at the dropship behind the one those soldiers were firing from, Gordon ran over to it and jumped up onto its flat rectangular head and up its mottled yellow brown back. Now on the high ground, Gordon snapped his rifle around, lining up the sights with three nearby soldiers and carefully squeezing off a short burst into each of their padded necks, dropping them like child's play.

Looking over to his right, Gordon saw two of the Swiss troopers taking his indirect advice by climbing up onto the dropship they'd just been behind. Concentrating on his situation, Gordon's eyes focused on an enemy soldier running toward him about ten metres away through the labyrinthine arrangement of landed aircraft, who he quickly attempted to take out. The soldier, evidently more cunning and observant than the majority of his comrades, ducked down before the burst of pulse slugs smacked into the rooftop.

Gordon, unwilling to waste time and leave an opportunity for one of the brighter troopers to get a shot off at him, took a quick glance at the randomly scattered dropships in the close vicinity around him before jumping onto the one right in front of him and running across it onto the one directly after it. Immediately, he saw the soldier around the back of the dropship, his head ducked down as he scampered away.

Deciding against redundant gunfire, Gordon instead ran toward the end of the dropship, jumped clear off it and landed on the soldier's back. Taken aback by this sudden deadweight, the trooper lost balance and fell to the ground, just as Gordon smacked him over the head with the butt of his rifle.

Clambering hurriedly to his feet, Gordon spun around just as two more soldiers scurried around the front of the same dropship, practically skidding to a halt and completely abandoning any time-wasting that lining up the sights would cause and instead opting to just fire from the hip.

Of course, hip firing isn't exactly the best course of action in the real world, but Gordon wasn't too far away so half the shots at least hit where he had been a moment before they opened fire. Now he was on the ground, beside the unconscious body of the soldier he'd just incapacitated. Suddenly having an idea, Gordon stood up and pulled the unfortunate bastard to his feet, wrapping the man's arms around his neck and holding him to his body with one hand while he held his rifle with the other.

Now armed with this living shield Gordon jumped back around the corner, whereupon he almost crashed into the surprised troopers that were following him. Both sides opened fire, but seeing as Gordon was of course covered by one of their own they only managed to shoot the armoured arm holding the sleeping soldier up.

Then again, by the time Gordon had taken the attackers out, friendly fire had made sure he wasn't going to be waking up.

Dropping the now lifeless corpse to the ground, Gordon examined the blood dripping from his arm. His mind flashed back to the Gman mashing his doppelganger's body up, and he felt warm bile rise in his throat. Swallowing quickly, Gordon shook his arm as if the sticky liquid were an insect on a hysterical schoolgirl.

After most of the stuff had flung off in thick globules, Gordon looked all around him. He couldn't see anyone, except for the heads of the two Swiss guards standing up on the dropship behind the airvent they'd come from. Gordon decided against getting back up and instead chose to make his own way through the warren of metal he stood in, reloading his rifle and slotting a new munitions capsule into the internal magazine. Then he turned around and headed off to the left, away from the others and toward the giant hole in the roof, which he couldn't see yet thanks to the gargantuan dropships lying immovably in his path.

There were two paths stretching off before him, one leading to the right and the other directly to his left. Taking a moment to examine both, Gordon hurried off to the right.

Running through the endless forest of Synths, he eventually found himself at the other side of the roof, looking out at the breathtaking panoramic view of the grounds. While the courtyard was a bit of an eyesore right now, the rest of the landscape spanning out in all directions along with the unusually clean and beautiful water of Lake Geneva added up to a view definitely worthy of framing.

Gordon, absorbing this stark contrast in comparison to all the intense violence he had been thrust into for the past half an hour, took a brief moment to simply gaze out at the beauty of his planet. His body relaxed, and a smile slowly edged its way across his lips.

The sky was rather cloudy, but all of them were at least reasonably white. In one of the brighter clouds, he swore he could make out Alyx's face.

Gordon's countenance softened. _I wish you were here, Alyx..._

He sighed ever so gently. _Soon, I'll be with her again. _

Behind him, one of the dropship's armour clanged loudly as a rapid burst of fire ricocheted off it. Instinctively, Gordon ducked his head and threw himself behind cover, fumbling with his rife momentarily before poking it and his head back around the corner and answering fire.

One of the troopers fell to the ground, his chest now a gaping hole of sticky tattered flesh. Behind him, the other eight soldiers brought their arms up. Spotting them, Gordon's eyes widened and he pulled his head back behind cover, getting to his feet quickly and running back the way he'd come.

Apparently, the soldiers heard his feet scampering as one of them quickly pulled himself up onto the dropship and ran over to the other side, just in front of Gordon. Snapping his pulse rifle up, Gordon watched as the trooper frantically threw his own rifle at his face, which he stumbled backwards to avoid just as the soldier threw himself at Gordon, tackling him to the ground.

Wrestling desperately with the frenzied soldier, Gordon held his rifle up in defence, trying to smack his attacker off him. Determined to keep him down until his comrades arrived, the soldier refused to budge despite Gordon's attempts to throw him off.

In the heat of the moment, Gordon has a split second flash of ingenuity. Noticing that his assailant was holding onto the rifle's barrel, He readjusted his grip so his finger could reach the primary trigger and squeezed it. The soldier withdrew his hand sharpish, giving Gordon an opening to swing the rifle's muzzle up at his face and open fire.

The soldier's mask exploded, the pale flesh beneath torn into bloody chunks that had an uncanny resemblance to Turkish Delight. Blood splattered all over Gordon's rifle and the torso of his HEV suit, soiling the relatively clean armour with crimson liquid.

Showing the faceless body off him, Gordon clumsily got to his feet and spun around, stumbling back a few steps as he tried to ignore the blood on his suit and the vomit in his throat. Usually he could cope with gallons of blood, but that was only if it wasn't washing over him like water. Plus, he didn't exactly have a strong stomach after witnessing the Gman's brutally lengthened butchery of his twin.

Swallowing hard again, Gordon focused and waited for the soldiers to come around the corner, whereupon he would kill them all...

Gordon paused. He was going to senselessly murder seven more soldiers. Why?

_Obviously because they're trying to do the same to you, _the practical side of his head reasoned, _and they are standing in the way of future peace._

But he couldn't shake the fact that they were living beings. He shook his head, wondering why this was propping up now. He'd never had problems killing before, so why was he suddenly questioning his morality?

The first soldier rounded the corner. Crushing his doubts underfoot Gordon opened fire on him, his teeth gritted, knowing that he would probably regret such rash action later.

Right now, morality could suck it.

After three soldiers had patriotically become cannon-fodder, Gordon stopped firing and ran. After a moment, the others realised he wasn't there anymore and chased after him.

Weaving in and out of the maze of dropships, Gordon tried to lose his pursuers. Adrenaline pumping and his heart racing, he finally came to a stop around the middle of the roof. Of course, seeing as he was surrounded by four metre high dropship-and-troop-carrier combinations, he could only tell where he was by the gigantic hole yawning open in front of him. Gazing precariously over the edge, his sunlight-adjusted eyes could only barely make out the floor in the contrastingly dark interior of the main hall, little speckles of green dancing around his view.

He looked up, wondering why the dropships hadn't landed over this part of the roof too, seeing as they were the ones who made the hole after they'd already landed. Remembering the chunks of debris he'd crossed over earlier, he recalled there being large splotches of blood all over them. Perhaps they'd wanted to investigate?

Then he saw the body.

It was Shephard, his head just as nonexistent as it had been when the Gman's twin had finished with him. Gordon vividly remembered the Marine's skull exploding like a burst balloon full of red water and white plaster chunks, before his corpse had been discarded in the exact same spot that he now saw it lying in.

Exhaling loudly, Gordon lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes, holding his pulse rifle loosely at his side. He couldn't wait for all this to be over.

He lowered his glasses, thinking about the situation. Right now, he had to clean out the rooftop. Problem was, he had no idea how many of the Belgian soldiers had gone down the Gman's hole...

Thinking about that moment half an hour ago or however long it had been, Gordon tried to think of where the Gman had come from. Looking at where the body was, he tried to piece together that information with what he remembered about his point of view at the time. He'd been standing opposite the Gman's twin after Shephard's head exploded — he looked up from the body, directly ahead of him: he'd been standing some distance from where he was right now.

Heading around the perimeter of the gaping hole, Gordon passed the Marine's decapitated body and climbed up onto the closest dropship, looking around at the ground surrounding it. Sure enough, he could just see the edge of another, somewhat smaller hole just behind another dro—

Deafening gunfire exploded from behind him, followed almost instantaneously by two sharp jabs in the small of his back. Wincing in pain, Gordon fell to his knees and rolled off the top of the dropship, gritting his teeth as his suit beeped and scolded him like a tyrannic mother censuring a foolish child. Taking a moment to recover, Gordon pulled himself to his feet and quickly checked the ammo of his rifle: 9 shots left in the current magazine. Right, that should be enough.

Gritting his teeth again and feverishly rubbing his back with his free arm, Gordon started circling back around to the front of the dropship, pausing to readjust his grip on the rifle and tightly wrap his other arm around the hard metal handguard.

Spotting his attackers, Gordon let off a sharp burst of pulse fire. Two of the soldiers dropped instantly, while the other three snapped their attentive heads — and their eager gun muzzles — around to look at him. Realising things weren't looking so bright anymore, Gordon dropped to the ground as multiple shots bounced off the Synth's thick plating.

_Come on, Freeman, _he urged himself silently, you're _going to decide when you die, remember?_

Taking his own advice, Gordon swung himself back around and fired the remaining four shots into the group, who were advancing on his position from the other side of the hole in the roof. One of the troopers received the full brunt of the pulse rounds, his sternum shattering and his chest exploding. His comrades returned fire, forcing the vigilant Dr. Freeman to duck back behind the dropship as he flicked the reload switch. The alien gun clicked and beeped futuristically, ejecting the spent munitions capsule out the bottom and cycling a new one into the chamber with an affirmative beep.

The Combine seemed to have it all worked out, in terms of manufacturing conservation — instead of individual bullets, they simply used energy pellets equivalent in size to a normal bullet that acted as a miniature magazine by having enough energy in them to fire thirty rounds. The hammer would simply prime the same round repeatedly until the capsule was empty, and then at the touch of a button the tiny magazine would be cycled and spat out the bottom, replaced by its full counterpart.

Of course, Gordon didn't have time to consider the technology behind the weapon in his hands, all he needed to know was how to fire and reload the damn thing — fortunately, he'd been acquainted with that knowledge a while ago.

One of his assailants rounded the corner, spraying rounds inaccurately and borderline manically. Gordon practically threw himself to the ground, returning much more accurate fire. The shots tore into the poor trooper's crotch, absolutely obliterating his pelvis in a spray of hard bone and blood.

Gordon didn't know if there was anything down there anymore, and he sure as hell didn't want to, but it didn't seem to matter — gunfire is gunfire, after all. Scrambling to his feet, Gordon opened fire on the next soldier, who had halted just behind his unfortunate brother for a moment too long. His body was riddled with shots, shaking as if it were a ragdoll in the hands of a frustrated child.

If he had counted right, there was only one guy left. He hadn't shown himself yet, which wasn't doing anything useful for Gordon's anxiety.

_Fear stems from lack of knowledge concerning the unknown, _Gordon thought frantically to himself, _which is why I feel like I'm going to piss myself if I don't find out where that bastard is hiding!_

He started backing away from the dropship, his eyes ever wary, watching nervously for the soldier to show himself. He listened out for footsteps, but found only his own scraping sharply on the rooftop. Backpedalling faster, Gordon's eyes snapped back and forth, trying to see anything that might betray his pursuer's location to him.

Something moved on the right side of the Synth's rugged armour, a fleeting shadow on the golden-brown of th—

The ground fell away beneath his feet, and Gordon spiralled down into the depths o... _thump._

Yelping in agony, Gordon blinked his eyes quickly and shook his head, looking around him. He appeared to be lying in the middle of a beautiful corridor, on the cold hard terrazzo. There was a faint white dust on the floor and about half a dozen thick black rappelling ropes hanging down all around him. Looking up, Gordon saw glaring sunlight above him.

He'd fallen into the Gman's hole. Almost laughing at himself, Gordon slowly got to his feet and dusted himself off, spotting his rifle lying discarded on the floor a metre or two away. He quickly bent down and plucked it up, checking all the little components for damage. It seemed alright, for the moment at least.

Then he noticed there was a pile of bodies lying right beside it.

Surprised, Gordon pulled his head back in confusion. Then he looked around him, realising that he was in the same corridor he and the Swiss guards had been attacking with the Gman just before.

Shaking his head tiredly, Gordon recalled the lieutenant saying the general was setting up a regroup position in the main hall. Well, that was the best place to go, seeing as he was right next to it. He couldn't contact the lieutenant at the moment, though; he didn't have his radio channel. Perhaps he'd ask the general to contact hi—

Something exploded.

Normally this wouldn't have been anything unusual, but Gordon felt the floor shake under his booted feet and his head started to spin. The noise was muffled, but even still it sounded reasonably nearby. Somewhere far below him, by the sound of it.

Suddenly feeling a great wave of ominous dread washing over him like the sickly warm blood of that soldier whose face he'd shot up earlier, Gordon ran for the door to the main hall.

—

It was absolute pandemonium.

The main hall had been a centre of relative peace and order, where the French general and Dr. Breen were keeping the hundreds of soldiers gathering there under control and trying to organise some sort of divergent offensive that would strike the sparsely placed attackers hard and fast.

This got kicked in the teeth right around the same time as the doors on the far wall of this giant room were blown off their hinges and enemy soldiers came flooding in from the Advisor Conference Room.

In an instant, all control that the French general had had evaporated in the face of sheer chaos. Soldiers ran, returned fire or just got blown to pieces as the enemy advanced mercilessly on the surprised units gathered there.

Eventually, the general and Dr. Breen were forced to run for the courtyard, back toward the enemy's first landing point. Most of the soldiers who made it out of the massacre followed suit, streaming out of the three double doors like panicked shoppers during a psychopathic shooting.

The general, knowing full well that he and Dr. Breen were probably the most important people there along with Dr. Freeman and the Gman, headed for Gordon's Hunter Chopper. Hopefully, he would be able to contact the physicist so as to organise a retreat for them, seeing as shit had just gotten serious and the Advisors were almost undoubtedly free of their prisons.

After running across the ruined courtyard and stumbling through the tangle of dropships, the general finally found Gordon's chopper. With his panting administrator at his side, the general pulled the cabin doors open and jumped inside, slamming them shut and locking them after Dr. Breen had pulled himself inside.

Without a break in his stride, the general opened the cockpit door and sat himself down in the pilot's seat, reaching for the radio. He expected it to be tuned to White Forest's frequency, so he could ask them what Dr. Freeman's channel was.

**White Forest, 12:45 PM**

"Sir," the radio operator called Dr. Magnusson again, "the French general just contacted us requesting Dr. Freeman's radio frequency. Apparently, they've been overrun."

Magnusson straightened up, thumbing his intercom. "Did you give it to him?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good. Remember, this is the man Freeman was standing by in that last broadcast. I trust Dr. Freeman's judgement."

The radio operator paused. "Right, sir."

"Keep that in mind," Magnusson released his thumb, just as something beeped on the console beside him.

—

_I couldn't leave well enough alone, could I? _Gordon asked himself irritably as slugs ricocheted all around him. He was up on the fifth floor, ducking down in front of the staircase with his rifle pointed at the bottom, waiting for the enemy he'd just alerted to come running up the stairs after him.

A few minutes ago, he'd spotted the enemy soldiers flooding the main hall and he'd decided to fire back. After most of the defenders had retreated, the attackers had realised someone was up on the fifth floor shooting at them. Not taking this gesture lightly, they fired back.

Gordon was one man, and they were about three hundred times that. Not the best of odds to be going up against.

Soldiers suddenly appeared at the foot of the stairs, charging into Gordon's view. Effortlessly, he picked the first few off as they unintelligently ran blindly into his line of fire.

Spitting in distaste, Gordon panted and kept his sights traced on the bodies now lying at the bottom of the stairs. He could always retreat, but he didn't have anywhere to go except maybe the roof...

"_Dr. Freeman, do you read me?_"

Like a message from God his radio crackled to life as the general's voice came across the old speakers, the quality on par with the static ambience it spewed. Gordon hurriedly pressed the mike to his mouth, "I read you, general. What's happening?"

"_The enemy's taken the main hall. Advisors are almost certainly free, and I'm in your chopper with Dr. Breen. Where are you?"_

"Main hall, fifth floor." Gordon answered quickly.

"_Get your ass to the roof, Freeman," _the general ordered sharply, "_I'll get you out of there. Know where the Gman is?_"

Gordon didn't, but that wouldn't be a problem. "He'll know where I am," Gordon offered, indirectly giving the general a 'no'. "He always does."

"_Alright. I'll be on the roof in half a minute, make sure you get there soon._"

"Roger that," Gordon muttered, getting to his feet and backpedalling through the open doorway, turning on his heels and running through the devastation the Gman had left in his wake ten minutes ago. As he reached the thin drapes of rappelling ropes hanging from the roof, two Belgian troopers jabbed their rifles around the corner of the vacant doorframe, spraying gunfire into the room. Shots flew everywhere, cracking debris from marble pillars and shaking the unoccupied ropes hanging from the roof like vines in the wind. One of the random shots hit Gordon's left ankle, burning like a flaming poker driven into his skin. Gritting his teeth, Gordon hung onto the rope for dear life and he fumbled with his rifle and returned fire, spraying the doorway indiscriminately.

Nobody got hit, as the two rifles quickly withdrew themselves and soldiers ran in, firing in Gordon's general direction before pressing themselves behind the marble pillars near the doorway. Breathing heavily, Gordon continued climbing the fastened rope, now using two of them to pull himself up. Finally, he reached out for the edge of the hole, grasping onto the crude jagged masonry jutting out and dragging himself onto the roof on his stomach.

Looking up, he spotted a group of soldiers standing around him, one putting his weapon away and extending a dirty gloved hand. "Fleeing the field of battle, huh Freeman?" the lieutenant asked jokingly, his tone openly light.

Gordon grunted, taking the hand. The officer pulled him to his feet. "The general's coming," he explained to the soldiers, just as he caught sight of the slowly descending Hunter-Chopper behind them. "Ah."

"We already know about that," the lieutenant admitted, turning around and heading toward the chopper as it continued lowering. Gordon frowned, looking at the aircraft as it went down even further. "What's it doing?" he asked himself quietly, passing in front of the general and past the dropship blocking his view.

When he spotted the chopper, his eyes widened. There, hovering just inside the giant hole in the roof, was Dr. Breen, pulling the cabin doors open completely. "Freeman, you and the soldiers are going to have to jump in!" he yelled, the roar of the chopper blades deafeningly loud. Gordon, not wanting to waste his breath, simply nodded vigorously as the others joined him.

Beckoning for him to hurry, Dr. Breen watched as Gordon took a few steps back, paused and broke into a run, diving forward in a manner similar to that of Superman. He crashed into the hard floor of the cabin, Dr. Breen pulling him to safety...

...just as gunfire erupted from beneath them.

Apparently, a helicopter hovering inside a giant hole in the roof wasn't exactly the stealthiest approach.

Noticing the gunfire, the Swiss troopers looked apprehensively at Dr. Breen, who urged them to jump anyway. Any reluctance or regret they may have been experiencing veiled by their masks, the small unit ran toward the wide open doors together, throwing themselves across the small gap between the ledge and the cabin. One of the soldiers, it seemed, had pulled the short straw of fate and was riddled with shots from below, rounds pummelling his stomach and squirting pressured jets of acid and blood out at the floor far below, his head slamming into the edge of the cabin's floor with a sharp crack and his body falling limply into the gap.

The others made it without incident, except for one of them accidentally catching his toes on the edge of the floor and smacking hard into the floor. Fortunately, he only suffered some nasty bruising on his chest and forehead.

After the soldiers were onboard, Dr. Breen slammed the doors shut and the helicopter lifted up out of the hole, its blades roaring. Gordon joined the general in the cockpit, sitting down in the copilot's seat. "Where we headed?" he asked as the chopper glided across the war-torn courtyard.

"White Forest, of course." The general replied bluntly.

Gordon frowned. "With the soldiers?"

"Why not?" the general answered. "Besides, it's pretty much the safest place on Earth right now for us, seeing as everywhere else is ripe with the discord I caused with my little coup."

Gordon didn't reply; the general was right. "I guess you're right. So what do we do, now that the Advisors are back in business?"

"We're still in power," the general replied. "Although the Advisors never really lost it, to be honest. I just locked them up in their own conference room."

"So everyone's going to follow either you or the Advisors?"

The general nodded. "Should be the case. Besides, Dr. Breen's on our side. He and the Advisors basically make up the Combine government here, just like any other offworld colonies. Of course, the Advisors and Administrator have to answer to the Prime Advisors, but since we don't have contact with them they can't help us."  
"And I killed them all."  
The general paused. "Yeah, and that."

Sitting in silence for a few moments, Gordon watched as they flew over Lake Geneva. It was strange, seeing how nice the water was in comparison to the toxic sludge flowing from the dysfunctional backwater areas of City 17. Perhaps the Co—

"_Helix One,_" a White Forest radio operator's frantic voice exploded over the radio, "_this is White Forest, we are under attack from a large Overwatch attack force coming from the north, over!_"

Gordon, unable to believe what he was hearing, pulled the radio from its cradle, "you're under attack?" he demanded incredulously.

"_Units identified as part of the Slovakian Sector 4 Overwatch, Defence Regiment._"

"Slovakian...?" the general breathed. "Dammit, we've got enemies on all sides."

"Helix One to White Forest," Gordon stammered into the radio, "do you have any Overwatch allies in the area?"

There was a pause. "_Negative, Dr. Freeman. Romania has been under human occupation for over a year now, remember?_"

Gordon slammed his fist down on the control panel. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled angrily, exclaiming furiously. "Every single fucking thing I do..."

"Freeman, calm down!" the general ordered sharply, grabbing the radio from the exasperated physicist. "White Forest, can you give us an estimate on enemy numbers?"

"_Uh, at the moment it looks as if there's two thousand ground units... they're marching up the mountain right now, apparently they don't care about the mass grave or the warnings at the bottom._"

"How long can you hold them off for?"

"_General, there's only five hundred odd soldiers here. Without Freeman or the Gman, things aren't looking so bright."_

Somebody reached for the radio, taking it gently from the general's hands, "I'll be there shortly." The Gman announced into the radio.

Unaware that the Gman had just appeared out of nowhere, the radio operator didn't seem at all phased by his comments. "_Ah, excellent. We really need your help right now._"

"Glad to assist the Resistance." The Gman replied, "Gman out." He passed the device back to the general, who continued talking into it. Gordon, on the other hand, got to his feet. "Where'd you come from?" he asked, his mouth spread into a toothy grin.

The Gman chuckled softly. "You know the answer to that, Dr. Freeman."

Gordon threw his arms up, his smile unwavering. "Right. All the demigod business and whatnot, eh?"

The Gman smiled back. "Almost. I hear White Forest is under attack?"

Gordon's countenance darkened. "Yeah. Slovakian Overwatch. Slovakia is north of Romania, right?"

"About an hour travel time." The Gman added.

"So what are we going to do?"

The Gman almost laughed. "What did we do the last time White Forest was attacked, Dr. Freeman?"

Gordon shrugged. "I got killed by an Advisor, you caused an avalanche and some Croatians bombers saved the day."

The Gman did laugh at that comment — warmly, which was unusual for a man of his snappy business demeanour. "Despite the level of truth in that statement, it was not the answer I expected which was that _we fought_."

"We didn't exactly win."

"_I _did."

"Isn't that just dandy?"

The Gman sighed. "Dr. Freeman, we are going to win."

"How do you know?"

"Because you want to. You _have _to, otherwise the Advisors will ultimately reinstate their corrupt legislation over this planet and they will not stand in the way of any militant Combine endgame enacted by the evacuation fleet that comes in approximately seven months on the human race. Remember, the Combine have no knowledge of this peace treaty you have made, nor of the Advisors corruption or the general's coup."

That hit Gordon hard. The Combine, no matter what effect he had had on this planet, were still their enemies, at least until they could negotiate something with the Prime Advisors.

Which wouldn't happen if they didn't protect White Forest.

"After this battle," Gordon muttered, "every single soldier loyal to Dr. Breen and the general's successful coup needs to be brought to Romania. We need to defend this country for however long it takes the evacuation fleet to arrive."

The Gman nodded. "Wisely said, Dr. Freeman."

Gordon smiled. "It's what I do best."

"Other than fight, of course."

Gordon paused, thinking about that comment.

_Blood splattered all over Gordon's rifle and the torso of his HEV suit, soiling the relatively clean armour with crimson liquid..._

"Right..." he mumbled. "Gman, after this battle, we need to talk."

* * *

**This is it, people: the final battle. After this will come what I hope will be the satisfying conclusion and the epilogue. Not much longer, just please bear with this muddled mess until the end.**


	31. Thirty: Expostulation

**-=Chapter Thirty: Expostulation=-**

**Airspace above the Valais, Switzerland, near Sion, 1:01 PM**

The Gman had left not two minutes ago; assumedly he was already underway with what Gordon expected was probably a concentrated expression of his belligerent grandeur, and by that he meant the Gman was kicking some ass in style.

To be honest, Gordon wasn't actually sure what would be waiting for him and his Combine cohorts when they arrived at White Forest. The Gman may have completely eradicated the entire Slovakian force at the facility and contaminated the pitifully shallow river at the foot of the mountain with the entire regiment's blood in two hours time, which would be extremely helpful for Gordon because he wasn't exactly feeling any sort of elation at the thought.

Basically, despite all the heroic things he had achieved and deeds he had done that had almost certainly secured him a spot in the history books as the saviour of mankind, his life sucked: his best friend, girlfriend, and two of his close colleagues were dead — not to mention two of them didn't even have the benefit of a grave, plus there had once been two of them and _both _of them were dead — leaving only an arrogant, grumpy old man that had only recently been acquainted with the idea of benignancy and an omnipotent guardian of the universe as people he could classify as friends, he wasn't sure if he was slowly becoming some kind of murderous psychopath and he'd been wrenched from an idyllic paradise because of how good he was at killing people — and inspiring others to do so — a few days ago.

He couldn't care less if he was being selfish or not. Besides, he doubted anyone else on the planet could claim they'd been brought back to life because they were the manifestation of mankind's hopes and dreams and without them humanity would have slowly descended into the inescapable darkness of alien police brutality that they in their ignorance thought was reasonless sadism.

Resting his head in his hands wearily, Gordon groaned almost inaudibly. There was nothing stopping him opening the cabin doors and throwing himself out the side of the chopper, or simply putting a bullet in his brain, other than his determination to see this whole thing through to the end.

And that was the thing: he _wanted _to see the human race join the Universal Union as an integral component in their aspirations for unanimity. He kept fighting because, no matter how many people were killed or how many tribulations crossed his life's path, he wanted to see his endeavours bear fruit.

He'd defended, destroyed and avenged in the hopes of doing something good for his fellow man, and now the yield of these efforts was in sight, like a light at the end of a tunnel.

And after he'd sampled the fruit of his labour, he would end his life with contentment...

"Something on the radar," he heard the general call out from his spot in the cockpit, seeing the uniformed officer lean forward to inspect the aircraft's dashboard, "shit, it's coming in fast from behind. I've never seen readings like this before..."

One of the Swiss troopers got to his feet, hooking up a gunner's harness he'd garbed himself with earlier and pulling the cabin doors open as they rattled in their metal frames. Though the onlookers couldn't see it, the consternated soldier's eyes widened in fear. "It's an Advisor!" he screamed, the terror in his voice clear even over the howl of the wind.

Gordon was on his feet in a second. Even if the end was in sight, that didn't mean the rest of the way would be free of oppression and that meant he wasn't free of responsibility. The Hunter-Chopper's onboard armaments wouldn't be of any help anyway, since the AAMs and turrets were static and couldn't rotate. "Right, seems they didn't get the idea back in Geneva," he grunted, heading for the armoury at the back of the room. "I think it's time I knocked some sense into their bloated heads..." he reached into the locker, pulling out his rocket launcher, "... a little more drastically."

**White Forest, 1:03 PM**

Apparently, they hadn't heeded the warning.

The Gman scratched his chin thoughtfully, examining what remained of the Resistance signpost at the foot of White Forest threatening any Overwatch units intending on attacking the base. It had been fired on by multiple weapons, the thick wood riddled with deep indents where the rounds had torn through, and the post had been snapped crudely in half with thick splinters jutting out from both halves.

_These are the graves of those who ascended this mountain with hostile intent. _

Little twigs had been erected over each of the myriad of mounds surrounding this sign, marking the location of the mass graves that the Romanian-Serbian Overwatch coalition unit had so kindly supplied over twelve thousand corpses for last year.

It looked like he'd have to help digging more soon enough.

Lifting the flap of his eyepatch briefly, he rubbed the tip of his index finger gingerly around his empty orbit, caressing the smooth bone of the cavity. He'd be able to get another one easily and it would even be organic, but he hadn't exactly had any down time since he'd lost it.

After this battle, though, it seemed that the only trouble they have would be from the Advisors.

Replacing his eyepatch, he gazed up at the peak of the mountain before looking back at the ruined sign discarded on the ground, tutting like a disapproving matriarch.

Then he started walking.

—

Gordon watched as the gigantic form of the glossy pale Advisor flew towards them, still inside its conference pod, which he noticed was almost identical to the pods that he and Alyx had first come across as they were traversing the bowels of the Citadel. Remembering the mass ejection of similarly shaped projectiles during that same Citadel's celestial fireworks show, Gordon gathered that they were like personnel aircraft for the cybernetically-enhanced slugs.

Readying his rocket launcher, Gordon flipped up the forward sight and lined it up with the creature as it and its glassy pod glided through the cloudless sky high above the planet. Having hooked himself up to the gunner's rail just before he was free to hold both grips without fear of falling all the way to Earth, and with that assurance his finger tightened on the weapon's trigger and squeezed.

The rocket-powered explosive burst from the wide muzzle of the launcher as its jets ignited, spouting a searing blast of flames out the back of the weapon that snaked all the way over to the cockpit and licked at the windows, catching the general's attention and almost giving him a heart attack. The rocket spiralled toward the unfaltering Advisor almost spasmodically, before it finally slammed into the front of the pod and detonated, exploding about twenty metres behind the Hunter-Chopper.

Somewhat unexpectedly, the pod actually shattered. Fragments of the device were swept away in the slipstream, and the damaged vessel was blown backwards, spinning uncontrollably as more pieces flew out in every which way. Although the pod's propulsion system continued to operate, the guidance systems were gone so all they actually did was help send the overgrown slug to its death much quicker.

Smiling at the grim sight, Gordon pulled himself back inside, closing the cabin doors with a resounding bang that echoed as the howl of the wind was cut off. "Hopefully the other's will get the message." He muttered as he calmly unhooked the gunner's harness from the overhanging rail.

Unfortunately, that was exactly what happened.

—

The Palace of Nations had been retaken.

While minute pockets of determined little defenders hid their heads from the oppressive Belgian forces, the Advisors had once again taken control and were now commanding their rescuers' operation.

A little while ago, one of the Advisors had been deployed to pursue the insurgent escapees. Just now, a little notification had come through to the others that it had been killed. According to the emergency automatic posthumous report, it had been caused by a rocket-propelled grenade which had shattered the pod, depressurising it and deactivating all the main systems. Life support had lasted a little longer, before the device had shut down and the Advisor died of vonoxis-gas deprivation moments before its pod crashed into the ground and exploded.

The notification had also reported the exact coordinates at which the pod depressurised and according to the targeting information factored into the report the enemy Hunter-Chopper had been only twenty two metres in front of it at the time, giving the Advisors back in Geneva everything they needed to know to prevent them reaching Romania.

After calling the leader of the Belgian attack force, a colonel who had begun making preparations to capitulate this ridiculously instated 'government' the hour he heard the French general's broadcast, to the Conference Room, the Advisors relayed their aggregated decision to him via telepathy in the non-Advisor communication pods.

_We have located the insurgents._

Beneath his grime-smeared mask, the colonel smiled in delight at the news. "Excellent. I will ready a unit immediately."

_We have no intention of sending you, colonel. While your talents have proved thus far to be much more applicable to militant operations, you will remain here indefinitely. _

The colonel's hidden visage darkened nervously. "May I inquire as to the reason, Advisors?"

_Free yourself of apprehension, colonel, this is by no means relating to any insufficiency you have demonstrated._

Relief flooded through the colonel's head. "That's good to hear."

_We simply deemed it an optimal course of action in case or in fact _if _any complication does arise that will necessitate your professional intervention._

"I'm honoured that you hold me in such high regard, Advisors."

_With good reason, as we said before._

"Well then, what exactly have you decided to do?"

_We have a unit ready in Hungary, who will be able to intercept the insurrectionists on their current vector to Romania. We expect to be updated on the situation within one hour's time._

The colonel nodded, a small smile creasing his lips. "And if they fail their assignment?"

With barely a second's pause, the Advisors responded. _Prepare a unit, colonel. You're going to White Forest._

—

The Slovakian Overwatch's LZ was just outside the base's perimeter, which appeared to have been breached not long ago. It seemed that around two military companies worth of ground troops had been sent into the base as a first strike, while the remainder of the force remained at the LZ while preparing to circumvent the facility and close in from all sides, preventing any escape as the units inside cleared the base out.

With two thousand troops, it could work. Perhaps the Romanians and Serbians had been thinking of a similar tactic, before they realised that there was a Fissionist on the enemy side and all strategy had flown out the window until they'd pulled themselves together an hour later.

Right now, however, the Gman was here to screw them all up.

Watching from the dense foliage directly behind the enemy, he carefully analysed where the optimal position to strike would be. Seeing some high-priority looking targets standing near the cluster of landed dropships, garbed in neat dress uniform and sternly discussing their procession, the Gman slid silently from the brush and walked with a facade of affability toward the group of officers.

It was almost pathetic how oblivious the soldiers were, scurrying around the plethora of dropship yelling orders to their subordinates as they prepared to siege the base, to the malignant threat closing in right under their noses. One would think that the Gman was invisible...

—

"I don't like it," a lieutenant admitted openly, looking at the other officers. "Twelve thousand soldiers couldn't take this facility thirteen months ago; what makes you think we'll make any difference with a sixth of the force?"

The CO's determination was steadfast. "Neither Dr. Freeman or his Fissionist confederate are present this time around, thus our progress should be majorly unhindered."

"The facility is a maze," another junior officer breathed. "The majority of the installation is underground tunnels, not to mention the two missile silos that would be ripe for an ambush." He looked up at the Commanding Officer, his nervous eyes unreadable behind his mask. "To be honest, just walking in there would be suicide."

The CO turned to face the junior officer full on. "Has the facility been breached yet?"

"We're still working on it," the officer admitted, without tension, "but we should be in soon enough. I was under the impression the facility had required some extensive reconstruction after the attack last year?"

The CO grunted dismissively, almost in ignominy at his deceased foreign comrades. "None of it was caused by us. The Fissionist caused an avalanche and Croatian Resistance bombers did the rest." He paused, turning his head to check on a small unit preparing to his right. "Blast doors?" he inquired, referring to the enemy defences their shock troops were trying to transcend.

"Two sets," the officer agreed. "We've wedged the first open; it'll only be a matter of time till the next i—"

The CO's neck made a sickening crack, interrupting the officer's reply as his head snapped to one side sharply. Immediately, the two junior officers standing with him whipped out their sidearms and paused, unsure of what to do seeing as their eyes were insisting no one was there.

Dropping limply, the CO's body crumpled in a heap as it landed softly in the dirt. A nearby squad had evidently heard the crack and they too were now aiming their various firearms at where their commander had been standing, equally as confused by the apparent lack of an assailant.

Somewhere inside the installation's perimeter, a muffled explosion sounded. Presumably, the strike unit had busted in.

The junior officer's slowly backed away from their superior's corpse, an intense feeling of dread washing over them in cold realisation. "It's the Fissionist!" one of them practically squeaked, breaking into a run.

Far inside the wire mesh fence lining most of the facility's perimeter a suited man appeared, striding purposefully toward the reconstructed entrance to the subterranean bunkers of White Forest.

He'd had his fair share of defending the outside from Hunter-Choppers and soldiers last year. This time, he was going in.

**Airspace above Rijeka, Primorje-Gorski Kotar County of Croatia, 1:54 PM**

Ever since Gordon had eliminated the Advisor back over Sion in Switzerland, the Hunter-Chopper's flight to White Forest had been uneventful. Now strapped into the surprisingly comfortable copilot's seat the physicist was assisting the French general with piloting the helicopter, keeping an eye on all the dials and gadgetry that he could make sense of lining the smooth grey dashboard.

Their flight had thus far been majorly without conversation, seeing as Gordon still wasn't even remotely relaxed and he couldn't think of anything to talk about to the general. Finally, though, something that had been nagging at his morality for a little while burst through, demanding attention. "General," Gordon asked, a little tense, breaking the prolonged silence, "you killed those soldiers without remorse, didn't you?"

"Absolutely." The general answered with blunt immediacy, which shouldn't have surprised Gordon.

But it did.

"How can you do that?" he pressed, looking over at the senior officer as he stared out the tinted cockpit windows. "They were your comrades, regardless of the territory they were stationed at...!"

"Freeman," the general interrupted calmly, his head budging not a millimetre, "you've had some rather close encounters with some of those nearing or on par with my seniority, haven't you?"

Gordon's mouth twitched irritably, "two."

"And I understand that both of them made it crystal clear that we are trying to enforce peace on your planet under the jurisdiction of the Universal Union?"

"Yes."

The general nodded slowly, his eyes staring straight ahead. "The coup I staged yesterday... I did it because I saw it was the only immediate way of attaining that peace. Look what I have created with my 'insurrection'." He glanced over at Freeman momentarily, "If the Advisors were still in power, would the events of these past few hours have occurred?"

"Eventually, perhaps," Gordon admitted, "seeing as I learnt about the Combine's true nature from the Swedish general. Without your coup, though... I doubt the Advisors would have allowed us to make peace as allies. They'd have killed me and crushed the Resistance."

"And so you understand why I have no regrets about my actions today."

"But surely you can't just brush off the moral implications...?" Gordon insisted.

"The end justifies the means, Freeman. Honestly, where are all these moral insecurities coming from? You never seemed to have any regard for Combine life in any of your previous operations, at least not from where I was standing."

Gordon paused, leaning back in his chair. "That's because I never cried on the field."

The general looked over at Gordon again. "Pardon?"

"Last year, the day before the siege on White Forest, I... well, I pretty much cracked. Started bawling my eyes out about how I was a monster and all that." He paused again, his shoulder sagging. "Geez, Alyx was there to pull me through then... now she's dead."

The general didn't say anything. He'd had no idea anything like this had ever happened.

Gordon sniffed. "So she told me... she said the Combine was the monster and that if I didn't like killing then I wasn't a monster, I was just doing the right thing as a human. That cleared some shit up in my head, let me tell you." He smiled weakly. "Anyway, I was all fine after that. But now... I don't know, it's like I'm some kind of machine, completely indifferent to the body count I've been racking up."

The general said nothing. Slowly, he looked over at Gordon...

... and he started laughing.

For a moment, Gordon wasn't sure if he was hearing right. When he realised he was, he was instantly confused. "What's funny?" he asked with genuine uncertainty.

"Freeman, you've never been in the armed forces, have you?" the general asked, his laughter dying down.

Gordon frowned. "No."

"It shows. Freeman, do you think soldiers question their morality when they are at war?" He didn't give him a chance to answer; the question was rhetorical, "Of course they don't, because they are fighting for what they believe in. Freeman, you are a _soldier._ Like us, you have to put the moral implications that arise from killing others out of your mind. As I said, the end justifies the means."

"So, what? You don't care about killing members of your own kind?"  
The general laughed. "Human beings didn't seem to care much before we got here. Look, if I have an objective and there is some form of obstruction in my path, I will remove that obstruction without a second thought." The general looked over at Gordon again. "Remember that. And keep in mind that no matter how many times you must take a life, it is for the greater good."

Gordon nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Alright. Thanks for that. I'm going to ask the Gman too, see what he thinks."

"Hope I helped." The general muttered, returning his eyes to th—

Something bleeped loudly on the dashboard, a little red LED blinking to life in the dim cockpit. Examining the light, Gordon checked to see what it meant. When he realised, his eyes widened. "Proximity alert." He whispered, pointing a gloved finger at the radar in the centre of the dashboard. On it, he could see three little green dots coming toward them from about a kilometre ahead of them. "General," he looked up at the officer, who glanced at him momentarily before noticing the physicist's finger pointing at the radar. Behind his mask, his eyes widened too. "Hunter-Choppers," he breathed, looking at the radio signatures illuminated beside the three dots, "The chopper recognises them as friendly. That could mean hostile to us."

"It could also mean reinforcements," Gordon added optimistically, looking through the cockpit windows. Far in the distance, he could see three specks of black coming toward them.

The general was unconvinced. "Doubt it, otherwise they'd have contacted us by now."

Gordon, dubious himself, grabbed his mike and pressed it to his lips. "This is Hunter-Chopper Helix One, Resistance attack helicopter, requesting identification of Hunter-Choppers 9237-23, 9107-99 and 9255-34."

Almost a kilometre away, the ranking officer onboard the middle Hunter-Chopper straightened up, having been leaning over the pilot's seat listening to the radio. "It's Freeman alright," he mumbled, looking up at the black object flying rapidly toward them. "Tell him we're on their side."

The co-pilot nodded obediently, patching through to the rogue helicopter. "This is Hunter-Chopper 9107-99, our convoy is part of the Hungarian Overwatch and we come offering you assistance against the Advisors regime."

Back on Helix One, the general was still sceptical. "Arm the weapons," he ordered Gordon, grabbing his own radio, "AAMs, pulse cannon, everything we've got. If they do anything, blow them out of the sky."

Gordon nodded, flicking a few switches on the dashboard. The general spoke into his own radio, "Hunter-Chopper 9107-99," he began as Freeman armed the air-to-air missiles, targeting all three of the fast-approaching choppers, "how did you know where to find us?"

The general lowered the radio, briefly glimpsing Gordon's gloved hand hovering over the dashboard, ready to open fire on the enemy.

There was silence.

Suddenly, the radio crackled to life again. "Hunter-Chopper Helix One, we received w—"

Before the speaker could finish, the targeting computer picked up two missile launches from the third Hunter-Chopper. Wasting not a moment to ponder the action, Gordon slammed his open fingers down on the red launch button, firing a spiralling volley of AAMs in response.

The quickly diminishing space between the two sides was suddenly alight with the roaring jets of air-to-air missiles, screaming toward each other's parent vessel like large metal hornets. The three hostile aircraft scattered, entirely aware that their choppers were not equipped with any countermeasures designed for anti-Combine electronic warfare. A scenario requiring such a thing was unprecedented, after all, and the idea itself was preposterous.

Then again, that meant Freeman was just as far up the same creek they were in.

As the two missiles hurtled toward Helix One, Gordon snapped his head over to look at the general. "What do we do?"

The general didn't look back at him, merely stared at the AAMs speeding nosecones spiralling toward them. Suddenly, he had an idea. "Freeman, get the soldiers in here!" he yelled. Gordon, completely aware he had no time to argue, rushed into the cabin. "General wants you now!" he demanded, the soldiers getting to their feet in confusion.

"Freeman, shoot the missiles down!"

"What?" Gordon frowned, not sure what the general meant.

"Dammit, shoot the nosecones," the general pressured, watching the missiles closing in, "bullets only!"

Gordon, still seeing no reason to argue, grabbed his revolver from his holster and levelled the sights with one of the incoming missiles, both now about the size of a quarter from where he was standing. Squeezing the trigger, a round primed and exploded from the handgun's muzzle, shattering the cockpit glass and flying straight toward one of the AAMs.

The other soldiers filled the small room, all carrying MP7s, just as Gordon fired again. This time, as the soldiers were pressing themselves against the dashboard to get a better shot at the missiles, the missile actually exploded.

Gordon had thought doing something like that was impossible, a conjuration of pure fiction for machismo action films as a demonstration of a character's awesomeness. But seeing as it now apparently _worked _he was going to keep doing it. As he swung his revolver around to face the other missile, the Swiss guards from Geneva opened fire themselves.

Submachine guns, while not the most accurate weapon, were sufficient from the hundred or so metres remaining between Helix One and the second missile. After a few barrages of gunfire, the missile detonated, exploding about seventy metres from the chopper's cockpit.

About a split second later, two large fireballs erupted in the distance. Little strings of dark grey flew out in all directions and little tongues of flame jetted out with them. One of the choppers was partially intact, and its burning fuselage began twirling uncontrollably toward the ground far below.

Looking over at the general, Gordon lowered his handgun. "How did you know that would work?"

The general nodded knowingly. "electro-optical IIR seeking technology in the nosecone," he explained. "I guessed a big enough bullet would damage the device enough. Manual abortion, basically."

Gordon just shook his head in amazement. "I wouldn't have bet five dollars it was possible."

The general glanced down at the radar as the Swiss troopers shuffled back to their seats, nodding for Gordon to sit back down. "Really?" he asked as Gordon took his seat in the copilot's chair. "I'd have thought you were the sort to take risks like that."

"You don't know me then."

"I know your reputation."

Gordon shrugged. What could he say to that?

"Alright, keep it tight, Freeman," the general instructed, watching the remaining Hunter-Chopper about seven hundred metres away as it turned slowly in the sky. "I'll swing us around, you get a lock on it."

Nodding, Gordon once again prepped the various armaments the aircraft boasted. Cyclic AAM launchers rolled in their underhung cradles, the multiple components of the pulse cannon's barrel swivelling and spiralling as each part adjusted itself for optimum function against the newly defined target.

In this case, wide-arc spraying was not the ample course of procedure. Accuracy was crucial.

While the burning enemy Hunter-Chopper swung violently around in the sky, crackling and burning against the bright azure of the heavens, the insurgent helicopter swung sharply to the right, circling in a wide arc around to the solitary hostile chopper still hovering.

It was strange, seeing as the chopper wasn't making any movements other than trying to follow the rogue aircraft now flanking it by turning in place.

"Probably trying to minimise movement to get a lock on us quicker," the general muttered, answering Gordon's unspoken queries, "so let's make sure they don't get the chance."

A thin smile creased Gordon's pale lips, his fingertips depressing the red button underneath his hand.

The missiles fired, jetting out in rapid succession as the underslung launchers spun. Vibrant orange streaks of smoke poured from the rockets like gigantic tracer rounds, followed by a heavy burst of concentrated pulse fire.

Seeing as rocket-propulsion systems are much slower than the chemical reactions that fire bullets or advanced pulse munitions, the pulse rounds hammered the enemy cockpit like a supersonic wave of pebbles. The glass was obliterated, as were the two unfortunate airmen piloting the aircraft. About five seconds later the first missile rocketed straight into the cockpit, detonating against the metal door leading back and blasting the entire metal frame to oblivion, twisted and bending it out in all directions. The rest of the missiles came moments later, flattening the separating wall between the ruined cockpit and the unaffected cabin and extinguishing the remaining occupants' lives in an instant.

The final missiles struck the left side of the chopper, ripping through the relatively strong metal after a few precise blows and igniting the turboshaft jet engine, completely destroying the heavily abused helicopter in a fiery plume of smoke, heat and pressure. Thousands of thin metal slivers were sprayed all through the air like shrapnel, before gravity took a hold of them and they fell like glittering dust to the ground, along with its tattered, burning parent.

Leaning back in satisfaction at their achievements, the general looked over at Gordon. "Nice work," he applauded the scientist's efforts. "Now let's get to White Forest before the Advisors get another team on our ass."

"Advisors?"

"How else do you think those guys found out where we were going?" the general asked, the chopper lurching forward smoothly as he realigned its course. "My guess is that the one you killed earlier stopped transmitting or something and that's how they located us."

"But that was almost an hour ago," Gordon frowned in disbelief.

The general shrugged. "Calculated our vector, obviously. We've been flying in a straight line ever since we left Geneva."

"Ah," Gordon pointed a knowing finger. "That would be it."

"Damn right it would," the general agreed, "and I've no intentions of hanging around to see what's next."

**Trieste, Croatia, 2:19 PM**

They were about twenty minutes behind.

Freeman had left around at approximately fifty minutes past midday. The colonel and his Belgian task force had departed from Geneva at six minutes past one, three minutes after the Advisors' had given him their instructions. Now, sitting in a hard padded seat bolted to the wall of the cockpit behind him, the impenetrable lenses of the colonel's mask glistened eerily in the dim light of the cabin as he sat among his unit cleaning up his rifle.

The soldiers were generally silent, with an occasional brush of fabric disrupting the otherwise perpetual ambience of the Hunter-Chopper's roaring blades, giving a strange feeling of security to the stalwart troopers waiting to prove their loyalty to their leaders and rid their planet of the insurrection that had been plaguing it for far too long.

"ETA, one hour." The co-pilot's voice crackled across the aircraft's loudspeaker, above the muffled chopping of rotary blades.

The colonel raised his head slowly, the light glinting on his dirty mirrored eyepieces as he shifted. "I would assume Freeman is heading for White Forest at maximum speed," he murmured, looking across the cabin at his identically clad comrades, "and should we do the same our arrival should be within twenty minutes of theirs."

None of the soldiers spoke, expecting their commanding officer to give them some sort of morale booster or short briefing on the task ahead. What they got instead was the colonel's bowed head and a barely intelligible grunt that sounded a lot like "kill everyone."

None of the soldiers had any objections, nor did they need any to justify their actions. These insurrectionists had committed a crime that was the epitome of high treason manifest; it was the least they could do to enforce the highest punishment upon them.

And if that was what he wanted, then that was what they would do.

—

It was like the Four Hour Siege all over again, except this time they hadn't been ready for it.

The base's subterranean levels were fairly secure, seeing as all the entrances were through the two silos and they were sealed up tighter than a Swiss bank. It was the levels above ground that were the problem here, what with the far lighter defences in place and access to the facility's command centre.

Around thirty or so rebels were holed up there at the moment, along with the fierce looking Dr. Magnusson brandishing his Romanian Kalashnikov, a PM md. 63. It stood out quite well against the small, dark grey German submachine guns and large, blue grey pulse rifles that everyone else was wielding.

Magnusson looked over at a grimy clock hanging from the wall to his left, the plastic covering sporting a large bullet hole and a spiderweb of refractive cracks: 2:21 PM. "It's been half an hour already," he grunted under his breath, fumbling with the radio hooked to his belt and bringing it to his lips, "Ulrich, how are we holding out?"

Somewhere in the maze of corridors and rooms that made up the ground level of White Forest, Petro Ulrich and his little band of resistance members were crouching in the darkness of a small storage room, gazing nervously from behind a thick panel of reinforced glass as an enemy squadron marching past them disappeared around a corner. "We never got a real defence in place," the dishevelled young man hissed anxiously into the radio gripped in his hairy hand. "The Combine are splitting up, searching for us everywhere."  
"_How many casualties for us, so far?_" Magnusson's voice crackled back.

Petro gritted his teeth, "I don't know, sir, I'd say I've seen fifty so far. We haven't actually lost that many, since most of us are doing the smart thing and using guerrilla tactics to fight."

The young soldier heard the end of Magnusson grumbling something irritably as his superior thumbed the radio again to reply. "_How many hostiles, would you say?"_

Petro sighed in exasperation; he didn't have a clue. "Look, I've got no idea," he muttered into the radio, "but it's a hell of a lot more than us. Not as much as la..." his voice trailed off, his eyes widening in awe as the snappy, blue suited man strode past the little room he and his men were hiding in.

"_Petro?_"

"Holy shit, Magnusson," the soldier's tone instantly picked up, his voice brimming with unadulterated excitement, "the Gman's here!"

"_What?"_

"I-I just saw him walking past us!"

Petro heard Magnusson chuckling, "_well, it's about bloody time."_

"He's probably been here ages now," Petro speculated, making no effort to contain his avidity, "clearing out the surface. I bet he rained hellfire on those bastards up there."

He heard Magnusson make a curious hum, the deep sound crackling softly through the speakers. _"Petro, see if you can get to the surface. When you do, report your findings to me ASAP."_

His faintly yellowed grin shimmered palely in the darkness. "Roger that, Magnusson. Out." Slipping the radio back onto his fatigues, Petro started crouch-walking over to the door, waving two shadowy fingers at the door. His squad-sized unit scrambled over, one of them reaching up and carefully easing the bar doorhandle down, cautiously pulling the splintered door open while trying not to make it squeak.

Fortunately, the door was relatively silent. With the gap just wide enough, the unit slipped through and got to their feet, their various automatic weapons at the ready. "Let's move." Petro ordered, and the team snuck off down the hallway both the Gman and the Combine had come from.

—

The door exploded inwards, snapping almost entirely in half and tumbling into the large office. The eight Combine troops charged through the doorway before the door had even settled on the floor, bracing their pulse rifles against their shoulders and hurriedly snapping their weapons around at the few soldiers that were attempting to return fire from behind a pair of faded red couches. The heavy assault of pulse fire tore the little group of rebels to pieces, skin peeling off in bloody flakes as the high-powered energy pellets hammered their bodies. Blood splattered messily across the walls in streaks, the mutilated bodies of the deceased squelching against the hard concrete wall.

The eight soldiers ran inside, spreading out and covering the room, checking each corner for doorways or other apertures that the insurgent scum might be hiding in.

One of the soldiers rounded the corner in the middle of the room, coming across an intact door. Waving to his comrades, two of them came over and covered his back as he raised his rifle and slammed the heel of his combat boot right into the middle of the door, a giant crack stretching almost half the door's height spreading out across it. Raising his foot again, his countenance plastic apathy, the soldier thrust his boot into the crack, splitting the door completely in half.

The hinged half swung away, bouncing away as it hit the wall while the other half simply spun a few times before settling against the far wall of the minute storage room it had been closing off.

And then the grimy rebel jumped out from behind a pile of flimsy cardboard boxes, spraying 4mm slugs from the hip at the doorway. His inaccurate spray threw up chips of concrete and hailed plaster down on the soldiers in the doorway, half of the barrage crashing into the lead soldier's padded armour vest and squirting high pressure jets of blood all over the chipped linoleum floor, his comrades immediately training their sights on the frantic insurrectionist and blasting his head into a flurry of slick red mist and stained white cranium.

The floor bore another wave of glossy crimson fluid, the slightly paler human variety pooling out in front of the headless corpse now lying lifelessly on the ground and mixing with the darker Combine blood, the two swirling together like paint.

Completely indifferent to this subtle observation, the troopers exited the stowage and returned to the office they'd just cleared.

Only to find it was no longer clear.

Limbs had been flattened and smeared across the already grubby walls, while the unfortunate soldiers' torsos were simply scattered across the floor in various states of disrepair. Some had long thin strings of flesh hanging from the stumps that had once been arms, while others had lost entire collarbones to whatever beast had mangled them. The walls and floor had, of course, been completely redecorated with a nice tone of crimson, painted so recently that drips of it ran down the walls and it glistened in the fluorescent lighting in the ceiling.

A drop fell from the roof, landing with an inaudible _plip _on one of the soldier's heads. His reactions heightened by the bustle of emotions he was now feeling, he snapped his head up to see what had caused it... and in the last moments of his life, he saw a silhouetted flash descend like lightning from above, like a fallen angel exacting his frustrations on the inferior mortals of his terrestrial domain.

The Gman came down on the two like a sentient, accurate hundred tonne weight, landing on their backs and snapping their heads clean off with his outstretched arms, his fall cushioned by their limp bodies as they crashed into the ground. Their decapitated skulls rolled slowly away, trailing a thin line of blood after them.

Brushing off his lapels in a manner of casual disinterest the Gman walked across the sanious viscera and alien offal now smothered into the floor, stepping through the doorway he'd entered moments before and heading off. Behind him, a light trail of sticky red footprints followed in his wake.

**White Forest, Romanian Countryside in the Municipality of Bucharest, 2:58 PM**

"Gear up," the general commanded over the Hunter-Chopper's PA, springing the Swiss troopers gathered in the cabin into action. "We're about a minute from White Forest, and if for some reason the Gman _hasn't _dealt with everyone on the surface I want everyone ready to do the job for him."

Sitting rather awkwardly among the bustling soldiers, Dr. Breen reached for the sidearm the French general had given him and checked the magazine. He only had about twelve bullets left, but he highly doubted either Freeman or the general would put him in the line of fire.

The cockpit door opened and Gordon strode out, gripping the pulse rifle strapped around his shoulders warily as he went. His eyes following the physicist as he walked down to the dented metal cabinet at the back of the cabin, Dr. Breen watched as Freeman pulled the doors open and patted the pockets of his combat webbing, before reaching into the locker and grabbing out a few more concussion grenades and some ammunition.

"Dr. Freeman!" Breen called out over the ambient drone of the busied soldiers, trying to cover the anxious insecurity in his tone. Turning to face his administrator, Gordon nodded. "Do you have any spare magazines for me?"

Smiling widely at the nervous man sitting a few rows away from him, Gordon nodded again and grabbed two nine-millimetre magazines, swinging the cabinet doors shut with a metallic clang and heading back toward his former boss and current 'leader' of sorts. He was about to pass them to the elderly man before he spotted the professionally-repaired stump that had once been his arm. "Right," he muttered, placing the magazines on Breen's chair. "Um... you didn't tell me how that happened." He added, nodding at the stub.

Breen caught the physicist's gaze, immediately noticing that Freeman had already speculated his responsibility. Not wanting to dishearten the far superior fighter before the imminent battle, Breen smiled. "Freeman, if you hadn't done what you did that day, I can't imagine we'd all be here as we are now. You have created a bridge between mankind and the Combine, and on the other side of that bridge is a gateway to the universe, a doorway to beyond the furthest stars." He looked longingly at the healed stump of his arm, "Besides, I've seen what the Combine can offer. I'll get a new one a hundred times better."

Gordon smiled. Still unsatisfied, Breen put down his handgun and patted Gordon on the shoulder warmly. "You always were a valuable asset back at Black Mesa, Freeman, even if I didn't get much opportunity to express it in your short time there."

Gordon's smile widened. "Thanks, Dr. Breen."

The chopper began to descend, about halfway up the mountain path leading to the facility. "Don't mention it."

"_Alright, boys,_" the general's voice burst across the PA, "_I'm going to fly in and give you some fire in the sky. Dr. Breen, make the call. It's gonna be dangerous, but you'll be in good hands either way."_

Dr. Breen spotted the general looking at him through the glass. Smiling, he jabbed his thumb at Freeman and the others.

Nodding, the general pulled his head back. Breen got to his feet, breathing out anxiously and shaking himself out. "OK, I'm ready."

Gordon nodded, looking at the other soldiers. The lieutenant nodded to him, giving him a thumbs up. "Let's move."

Moving up to the cabin doors, Gordon pulled one of them wide open and quickly jumped out. As the others disembarked he started up the dusty mountain path, the muscles in his legs quickly tightening as he charged up the steep hillside. Behind him, he could hear the light scuffle of multiple others running with him, and a few moments later the general flew Helix One overhead, its rotary blades churning powerfully as it went.

After about a minute, Gordon reached level ground, spotting a group of parked Armoured Personnel Carriers and a few platoons of soldiers just outside what remained of the base's perimeter. Soon enough, the others joined up with him as a wave of small orbs with blinking red lights fell onto the enemy rallying point from above.

As the general pulled the chopper up a cacophonic succession of deafening explosions assaulted the ears of his comrades on the ground, as well as the simultaneous flashes of blinding firelight and the searing flames that followed it.

The whole area now alight with numerous crackling flames, Gordon charged forward, bursting from the thin brush he had been hiding in and running toward the burning pandemonium before him. Following the enthusiastic physicist, the others rushed after him, Dr. Breen keeping up fairly well with the double line squad of Swiss soldiers running in front of him.

Arriving at the enemy rallying point Gordon pressed himself up against an APC closest to him, checking his rifle briefly before swinging himself out from cover and bracing the rifle against his shoulder, looking warily around the devastated base as it burned. At the bottom of his sight, below the lenses of his large glasses, he could see unfocused lumps of grey lying still on the ground, some of them smouldering acridly while others were consumed by little flames dancing on their charred, disfigured bodies.

His mind subconsciously registering the crunching footfalls of the soldiers behind him, Gordon moved forward, through the cluster of stationary attack vehicles and smoking corpses. At their feet, tongues of flame licked at the clumps of browned grass that hadn't been incinerated by the initial attack, the lush green all but whisked away in the blasts.

Fortunately, the extent of the damage was restricted in terms of affected area. While it had all but eradicated the platoons of soldiers at the hostile rallying point, the flames hadn't even touched inside the breached perimeter of the base.

The ambient drone of the Hunter-Chopper suddenly coming into focus, Gordon looked up and saw it flying over again, fortunately showing no signs of dropping any more explosive ordnance. Watching it fly over the buildings of White Forest, he followed it until it stopped in midair and slowly descended on the helipad on the other side of the facility. Satisfied, Gordon kept moving.

He was out of the destroyed rallying point soon after, the bitter scent of burning fabric and plastic whisked away from under his nose and the irritating heat of the fires around his legs was now just a soothingly warm breeze on his back. Gordon turned, watching as the others followed him out, Dr. Breen a little unbalanced as he shook his legs out, futilely trying to get rid of any embers that might've landed on his relatively clean pants. "Perhaps I should have stayed with the general," he admitted, trying to hide his discomfort behind a weak smile.

Gordon smiled back, shrugging. "You get used to it."

"Wearing that suit of yours," Breen snorted, nodding at Gordon's HEV suit, "it'd be easy. It's designed for this stuff."

Gordon laughed. "I'd probably be dead right now without it." He didn't need to make his former boss any more nervous by elaborating, especially since he probably had no idea Gordon had gone under the knife just before he'd died to get rid of the insane amount of lead that had been in his body.

The lieutenant examined a nearby APC, resting a gloved palm against it. "Seems to be in pretty good condition," he observed, running his hand along its warm metal side.

Gordon frowned. "What are you thinking?"

Behind his mask, the lieutenant smiled. "Hop in and I'll show you."

—

A fireteam of riflemen and a pair of heavy soldiers rounded the corner, coming to a long stretch of hallway about thirty metres long, with various rooms and corridors stretching off from it. The size along was enough grounds to speculate that they might have reached the important parts of the base, the nexus for the entire facility, not to mention that at the opposite end was one of the smaller blast doors that usually covered the entrances to silo access tunnels or command centres. Eager to draw some official blood, the team started up again, their boots scuttling loudly on the concrete floor.

Suddenly, from about twenty metres away, something came out from one of the adjacent corridors. Running on all fours, its legs scampered underneath it as it tried to slow down and redirect itself before it crashed into the wall to its right. As it did, the riflemen immediately raised their weapons and opened fire while their heavy backup loaded their rocket launchers.

Gunfire from the troopers' smallarms was seemingly ineffective against the towering beast, sparks flying off its hard metal armour as it charged down the hallway. Realising that shit was getting serious the four riflemen dropped to the ground and lay prone as they continued their assault, while the two soldiers behind them braced themselves and simultaneously fired their rockets.

The beam-riding charges flew at a phenomenal speed through the enclosed space, their jetengines spewing tongues of fire far out behind them. In the almost infinitesimal time between launch and collision, the incoming behemoth of metal flattened himself against the floor and slid, two tiny red dots appearing on the far blast door as the two rockets swirled over the mechanical leviathan.

As their attacker stretched back up and sped up for the final push, the lasers reappeared on its head and the rockets immediately spun around. Unfortunately, there wasn't nearly enough room for them to arc around at such a wide angle and they detonated violently against the grimy concrete walls, lighting up the hallway like brilliant sunset as the robot threw himself at the squad.

Weapons were thrown from shattered grips as the beast tore into its victims, swinging its gargantuan ligaments like a perfunctory gorilla and pounding the enemy soldiers into the concrete, snapping bones like they were musk sticks and ripping flesh like meat off a drumstick. Like liquid stuffing in a darker colour of the aforementioned confectionery, blood squirted out in jets as if someone had turned on a high pressure hose and a mist of droplets sprayed off the walls, drenching the robot assailant in a light coat of their sticky life source.

Finally, having dispatched of the six troopers, the giant automaton shook itself off like an energetic dog and looked at the multiple pieces of its handiwork.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, my mechanical acquaintance," the Gman admitted, stepping out from behind the bloodstained corner of the hallway and gazing down at the nauseating gore with a somewhat disturbingly nonchalant air of composure. Looking up, he extended his hand warmly.

Dog, having recognised the Gman immediately after the quaint guardian of the universe had revealed himself, whooped electronically and extended a titanic paw, gently shaking the Gman's elegant manus with his own titanic paw. Unperturbed by the blood now smeared on his palm and dripping from it, the Gman shook it off with equally casual indifference to the litres of the stuff now soiling the soles of his shoes. "Your efficiency is remarkable," he noted, looking around him again. "Care to join me in my endeavour for liberation of this facility?"

With a chorus of enthusiastic noises, Dog nodded his mismatchedly salvaged head.

"Excellent," the Gman smiled contentedly, walking past the large robot. Being the loyally acquiescent machine that he was, Dog followed directly in his wake.

—

Half the soldiers still at the rallying point while the strike team had been attacking had mobilised by the time Freeman and his band of Overwatch traitors had wiped it off the face of the earth. Now, having thinly circumvented the perimeter, the comparatively measly scrabble of troops were preparing to slowly close in on the facility and both breach all the ways in and block them off so no one could get back out.

Hopefully, the survivors would be numerous enough to effectively pull this attack off. The option of retreat was always there, waiting in all its humility to devour the stalwart soldiers into its lowly depths, but that would be taken only as a desperate measure, especially seeing as at least one third of the infantry was tearing the base's entrails out like a relentlessly malignant cancer and it seemed pointless to evacuate after having a majorly successful run thus far. Most of the soldiers didn't even know about the fate of their comrades back at the rallying point, which made the thought of backing down — when they thought nothing seriously detrimental had yet occurred — entirely preposterous.

Of course, most of them started to have a change of heart when they saw the Armoured Personnel Carrier driving toward them and the bunch of Swiss soldiers riding on its polygonal body while lining up the sights of their pulse rifles with their heads.

Others didn't have time to have reconsiderations. After all, afterthoughts usually require one's brain to be intact in one form or another, which some of the poor bastards caught up in the insurgents' gunfire involuntarily forfeited in favour of a messy death.

Rockets crackled angrily as they spewed forth from the side-mounted launchers, trailing thick plumes of spiralling smoke out behind them as they spun through the air bare metres above the ground. Weaving in and out of soldiers whose bodies erupted into messy crimson pulp and sticky clear fluid at the hands of the hijacked vehicle's deadly barrage of gunfire, the rockets crashed into their targets and blasted ichor and fragmented offal all over the relatively lush green of the Romanian mountain grass.

Everyone in front of the APC was obliterated, either by the harsh onslaught of pulse fire or the waves of guided rockets that swung in and out of those trying to escape the inevitable, and everything it passed lay dead on the ground, their mutilated bodies providing the plants on which they lay with a delicious fertiliser of blood and disembodied members.

Eventually, the compressed rocket munitions dribbled away and the rebels were left with half the circumventing force to fight with only a pulse turret and some bravado-intoxicated Swiss troopers riding shotgun on the vehicle's large frame.

From what they could see, the perimeter had been breached around the back too and now soldiers were flooding in, having busted through the corrugated garage-style door leading into the facility from the rear. Instantly Gordon's mind flashed back to the siege last year, when he and his temporally incarnated twin crouched in the dark corridors in the bowels of the base, steam hissing in the pipes right by his ears and the faint clutter of heavy footfalls on steel mesh.

"Right," Gordon grunted, pushing himself over to the hatch in the side of the cramped driver's compartment and sliding it open, pulling himself out into the refreshingly cool air and cocking his pulse rifle. Looking back into the glass-domed cockpit of the armoured personnel carrier, Gordon nodded. "Deal with the people on the perimeter," he told the general. "I'll take care of those guys down there." He pointed at the torn garage door, about fifty metres behind the APC.

The general nodded approvingly. "Don't do anything stupid, Freeman." He advised, however.

Gordon smiled thinly. "I'll try not to. No guarantees, mind."

"I expected as much," the general nodded expectantly, getting Breen to pull the door shut as the Swiss troopers riding on the outside fired at a unit somewhere on the other side of the base. As the vehicle drove off, Gordon sniffed loudly and spat over his shoulder, hoisting his rifle and gazing into the gloomy garage beyond the ruined doorway. "It's all gonna be over soon," he whispered to himself, shaking his head and charging toward the door.

* * *

**OK, this took WAY longer than I expected it would. Well, not really, I had to go to Tasmania for a week so that kinda interrupted the pathetic excuse for a writing schedule I have (i.e write when I feel like it) and I'm going to be away for another week starting tomorrow, this time a little closer to home (Anglesea, it's an annual thing). So yeah, this is a bad time of year for me to be a writer and you to all be my readers, but I hope this will keep you all engaged enough for what might be a little over a week.**

**Originally this chapter was going to be longer, but then I was like 'screw it, give 'em something to read before you go', so there you have it. And as I said, this isn't the end. White Forest was the highlight of the last story, the highlight of THIS one is going to be much bigger. And then everything will be fun and good times... yeah. You'll all like it, I promise.**


	32. Thirty One: Remonstration

**-=Chapter Thirty One: Remonstration=-**

**White Forest, 3:21 PM**

"What'd I tell you, boys?" Petro exclaimed joyously, his eyes eating up the spectacular lightshow of faint virulent smoke and blazing fire that Dr. Freeman and his Overwatch mavericks had left behind when they'd arrived twenty minutes ago. The four others with him slowly dropped their scepticism and silently conceded to their excitement, watching as the flames crackled and the thin wall of pungent fumes blew in the gentle wind.

His own incredulity long gone, Petro ran over to the base's ruined perimeter and stood before the devastation, the huge smile plastered on his lips growing even wider. "Son of a bitch, these guys took a hell of a beating..." he whispered, his tone conveying his almost anxious ecstasy without suppression. If Freeman was here, then that meant everything was going to be fine. When Freeman was around, everything always turned out fine, and when both he and the Gman were here things always turned out as best as possible.

The slicing of helicopter blades from somewhere ahead reached a volume loud enough for Petro's distracted mind to register. Looking up, he saw a Hunter-Chopper coming from the direction he was facing, its glossy lilac-tinted cockpit glistening in the afternoon sunlight.

Petro, his enthusiasm replaced by uncertainty and followed immediately after by fear, backed away from the burning ruins of the enemy rallying point and broke into a run, spinning clumsily on his feet and charging back toward the others, who were themselves running back inside the base.

Roaring overhead, the attack chopper's pulse cannon whined as it charged up and aligned its barrel with the scampering rebel's back. A few moments later, the turret spewed a thick stream of high-powered energy bolts that tore into Petro's back and impaled him like a thousand laser shurikens. His skin was peeled off like that of a potato headed for the pot and his muscle and spinal column dissolved under the powerful bombardment. Blood sprayed from countless exit points in his front, his stomach popping like a gaseous balloon and his lungs fanning out in front of him, flecks of other organs hanging loosely from the giant holes in his mutilated body before he cartwheeled violently and came to rest in a bloody pile in the dirt, his rifle thrown from his grip and bouncing off the wall with a dull clatter.

Then the chopper landed without any opposition. Its doors thrown wide, the colonel's Belgian task force streamed out and ordered themselves into two squads of eight, double file. The colonel himself stepped from the warm shelter of the chopper's cabin onto the wind-tossed grass waving around like millions of tiny windsocks in a tornado, looking around at the destruction that had once been part of the Slovakian Overwatch and then at the mangled body of Petro Ulrich. "The restoration of equilibrium has begun," he began gruffly. "I would estimate that about... a thousand soldiers would have died when the bivouac burning behind me was rendered to the state in which we now see it." Turning to his men, he scanned the length of both squads. "The insurgent lying in front of you was the first step toward that rebalance. You have nine hundred and ninety nine remaining until it is restored, and any excess is to be terminated under the justice of the Advisors whom they so audaciously defy. But," he raised a gloved finger to the sky, "if you find Dr. Freeman or the general with which he has allied you are to _detain_ them, with whatever force you deem necessary. Should their lives be terminated, so will that of the man at whose hands they were ended. The Advisors require they remain alive until this planet is evacuated in seven months, in their confinement. Move out."

The soldiers, complicit with the corruption of their commander, headed off without objection to enact their jurisdiction on White Forest.

—

The door swung open, crashing against the rough concrete wall from which its hinges hung as Gordon charged through the doorway, brandishing his pulse rifle edgily as he braced himself for his inevitable encounter with the enemy unit that had forced their way in just moments before.

He stood in the long, outdoor stretch of the facility that housed the inert body of a deactivated Strider, fused to a thick metal frame on a large pair of tracks that almost stretched the length of the alley-like area. Memories flashed in his mind, Dr. Magnusson's lips moving silently in his mind's eye as he gestured to the towering Synth and the spiky metal football-shaped explosive given the eponymous title 'Magnusson Device' hovering in its teleporter's cradle.

To his left was an open door, apparently having been left open by the invaders as they passed through however many moments previously. Cautiously, and with his rifle at the ready, Gordon walked silently onto the thin grass spread across the ground and headed through the ominously welcoming doorway, watching as two silhouettes on the other side of the adjacent room headed through the door on the opposite wall. With hair-trigger reflexes Gordon squeezed off two bursts in quick succession, both tearing the hurried soldiers backs to billowing threads of flesh and dark fabric. Blood sprayed on the walls, appearing in the gloom as splotches of tar and oil slicks glistening weakly in the meagre light streaming in from the afternoon sky outside.

Gordon slipped inside and ducked in the shadows behind the small wooden stool-like podium nailed to the ground on the right side of the room, where the thick glass container housing one of the aforementioned Magnusson Devices sat, the three flickering azure lights on its front blinking quickly in the shadows. Waiting in the darkness for the others to investigate, Gordon rested his pulse rifle on one of the crude ambo's wooden bars and tightened his already vicelike grip on the weapon.

As he'd expected, someone jabbed their own rifle around the corner and started spraying into the room. Fortunately, from the height at which this trooper was firing any shots that came near to Gordon were simply absorbed by the conveniently placed glass box on the stool he was behind, making a distinctly hollow _shick _when they hit it.

Gordon didn't move an inch.

One soldier ran through the doorway, his rifle braced readily against his shoulder. Pausing for a moment, Gordon watched as the trooper scanned the dark room for him. Another soldier followed after him, taking up his position on the other side of the room.

Without making even the slightest noise, Gordon turned the barrel of his rifle on the second soldier and shredded his lightly armoured abdomen, spraying the ground with caustic fluid and ichor. Before his disembowelled body could hit the ground, Gordon had swung his rifle around and blasted the first soldier's chest with a second well-placed burst.

He was on his feet before the corpses thumped against the dusty floor, running toward the doorway with his rifle at the ready. Suddenly, he heard some sort of mechanical whine coming from somewhere down the adjacent hallway, followed almost immediately by the garbled screams of the Combine and the echoing cracking of bones and the squelching thud of what he imagined were disembodied members drenched in one of many foul body fluids.

Slipping into the sparsely lit hallway and looking down at the wider section at the end, Gordon spotted the giant form of Alyx's guardian and friend Dog absolutely ripping the enemy apart in the light of a single glowing fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, clear even though most of the scene was blocked off by the corridor's wall. Behind the enraged canid automaton stood the battered, stalwart businessman figure of the Gman, his rigid countenance apathetic to the bloodshed his companion was causing to the unfortunate soldiers.

Slowly, Gordon lowered his rifle and walked toward the two as Dog ceased his rampage, shaking his dented head and whirring triumphantly over his kill. The Gman smiled, his gaze unwavering as the mechanical beast bathed in its bloody glory. "Nice to see you again, Dr. Freeman," he greeted, before his physicist friend had even stepped into the light. Gordon paused momentarily, before taking the last few steps into the lit section of the corridor and stepping around the corner to see the fruit of Dog's labour.

In short, it was nasty. But it was nothing Gordon hadn't seen before... a fact that worried him deeply.

Dog, having heard the Gman's greeting, now turned around to face his other friend, the one that loved Alyx and had played the game with him. With an electronic whine of the upmost joy, Dog threw himself over to Gordon and grabbed him in a warm bear hug, his mechanical body radiating warmth from somewhere inside it.

After a few moments, Dog released the scientist from his grasp, leaving his back and arms smothered in dark blood. Gordon ignored this little issue, instead focusing on the excitement welling up inside him. "You guys are a sight for sore eyes," he muttered tiredly, smiling at the two. Dog whooped again, while the Gman merely returned the smile. "The base has been relatively easy to liberate thus far," he admitted, casually updating Gordon on the situation. "I'd say we're actually rather close to terminating the Slovakian force here entirely."

"There's heaps of them trying to get in from the outside," Gordon explained as the Gman turned around and headed for the metal double doors behind him, "but the general's taking care of them."

The Gman nodded calmly. "The general... yes, good."

Gordon frowned, as Dog hauled himself past him and the heavy doors swung shut behind them. "What's wrong?"

"I assume you mean in relation to terms exclusive of the facility's invasion?"

"Yeah, I know we're under attack, Gman," Gordon muttered impatiently. "I was talking about what you just said."

"There's nothing wrong concerning that, Dr. Freeman," the Gman asserted. "At least... well, I'll explain after we've finished our job here."  
Gordon cocked his head. "Now I'm curious."

"Don't be." The Gman brusquely dismissed his intrigue.

Unconvinced, Gordon pressed him. "See, now I'm go—"

Suddenly, the doors at the far end of the hallway burst open and slammed into the walls with a deafening crash that shook them like leaves in the wind. Twelve Slovakian soldiers in double file stormed through the doorway and immediately took up firing positions, the front three of both columns breaking off and kneeling down in front of the other six, who stood directly behind them as they lined up their sights and opened fire.

Taken aback by the soldiers' swift entrance, Gordon spat a surprised curse as he loosely aimed his rifle down the corridor and sprayed a burst down its length, the inaccurate energy slugs spiralling through the majorly empty hallway and crashing into two of the soldiers arms, knocking them backwards as their comrades returned fire.

Gordon was a smart man, and had he been able to stop time and calculate the chance of him being totally screwed he probably would have. Taking into account that there were ten capacitated soldiers firing ten pulse rifles on full-auto with thirty-round energy capsules firing at a rate of eight hundred rounds-per-minute, he would have found out that in about two and a half seconds each rifle would have emptied their munitions capsule and that meant there would have been three hundred shots fired, which would have made him a very dead man.

However, that would have been without taking the Gman into account.

With his very eyes, Gordon watched the Gman somehow throw himself into the path of each oncoming slug, his body moving at a speed so fast Gordon's brain simply gave up and represented him as multiple translucent apparitions of himself.

Coming up with a suitable analogy so that it didn't explode, Gordon's mind made the comparison between the Gman's incredible speed and the scene in the Matrix, one of the last movies Gordon watched before he departed for Innsbruck back in 1999, where one of the agents is shown dodging the bullets fired by Neo in real time.

After around three seconds the gunfire stopped, followed almost simultaneously by the Gman. The soldiers immediately attempted to cycle new capsules into their rifles, but the Gman was upon them a nanosecond after their fingers had flicked the button to do so.

He was merciless.

With a sidewards swipe of his hand, all six soldiers in the forward line had the barrels of their rifles thrust down hard, swinging the stocks up into their chins and lodging them up through the soft flesh under their jaws and into their mouths, stopping after crashing through their teeth and hitting the hard inside of their masks. As blood sprayed out from their chins at a pressure so high it would sting bare flesh, the Gman followed up by pulling his hand back and thrusting his open palm at the remaining soldiers, their stomachs _imploding _inside them and their lower spinal columns snapping clean in two, their bodies splitting right in half and collapsing behind the viciously bleeding front line, blood splattering torrentially across the walls and floor.

It was an absolute massacre, and it took less time to complete than their infinitely less effective fully-automatic barrage had. Lowering his hand and watching as the thick pools of blood trickled towards his already soiled dress shoes, the Gman turned around and headed back toward Gordon and Dog.

Dog was indifferent; he was a robot, after all. Gordon, on the other hand, was horrified. Not so much as to throw up from sheer disgust, but enough for him to be utterly speechless. "How the hell are you able to do that?" Gordon whispered.

The Gman, entirely aware he was talking about the apparent apathy he was showing rather than his seemingly divine abilities, let out a sigh filled with melancholy. "Gordon, being a Member of the Fissionist Faction requires professionalism. I do not take any pleasure from my less... _ethical _decisions, nor do I feel any regret. I do what I must to ensure whatever task I have been given are completed to their maximum capacity."

Gordon, having recovered slightly from the recent bloodshed, nodded slowly. "Really... that's what the general told me too."  
The Gman smiled. "Judging by the circumstances, I'm guessing you asked him how he feels about killing his own comrades, and he answered something similar to me."

"Pretty much," Gordon agreed. "Neither of you make the killing personal. Me," he paused, "I can't help that. Half the time I'm killing people it's revenge, and all the other times I realise what I've really done later and often feel guilty about it."

The Gman smiled wearily. "Some people would criticise you for such things, claiming it affects your efficiency. While that may be true, it shows you're not a cold blooded killer."

"I like to think I'm not."

"Believe me, if one was to judge me based on your levels of morality, I'd be much worse off, and _I_ like to think I've still got a soul."

Gordon laughed. "Take it from me, Gman. You do."

—

The squad of eight marched sombrely through the hallways, their rifles at the ready in case someone jumped out from behind a corner or something equally as asininely suicidal. Moving in two lines, they went with an air of hauteur in their stride, confident within themselves that they were the ones in charge here, under the direct command of the Belgian general, who had struck down on the forces of the French general's coup and reinstated the Advisors' rightful regime over the Overwatch.

Of course, that was what _they _believed. Unfortunately, things weren't that simple. While the Overwatch was wholly loyal to their Empire, there was still some discrepancy between those on conquered and colonised planets concerning to whom that loyalty was due. Some maintained that the highest authority was that of the Prime Advisors, while others kept that the Advisors in command of the offworld colony that they belonged to were to be obeyed over the Prime Advisors on the homeworld. These views were never the cause of any real issues, however, as nobody had yet encountered a disagreement between the Advisors and the Prime Advisors before.

Of course, there had never been a case like that of the planet Earth. Not only had communication been cut off from the Combine Empire entirely by the natives during their surprise and shockingly successful rebellion, thus preventing any possible discussion withthe Prime Advisors, but for once the Advisors were acting in a way that could potentially be regarded as insubordination to the Prime Advisors. Then again, if you were one of those that believed the local administration didn't need the Prime Advisors to greenlight something, then that wasn't a problem.

And since loss of communication with the Capital and disagreement between Advisors and the Primes had been unprecedented, it hadn't even been _conceived_ that someone could be so strongly opposed to the unauthorised decisions of a colonial government that they themselves would rebel and overthrow it.

So, when the French general had suddenly launched a coup against the Advisors in Geneva, it was reasonable that none of them had been anticipating anything of the sort. Fortunately, his rule had been short-lived, and now they were here to bring his sorry ass back to the Advisors, along with Dr. Freeman.

Only problem was, they had no idea where they were.

Something moved through the shadows with the stealth of a snake, down a tangent corridor to the unit's left. Raising a hand, one of the soldiers stopped the squad's progress and turned on the hallway, raising his rifle. Slowly, he broke ranks and stepped into the darkness, stopping in the entrance and listening for movement.

Nothing.

Cautious, the soldier let off a burst of gunfire, momentarily lighting up the gloom with the brilliantly luminous muzzle flash of the Overwatch pulse rifle. In the flickering moments of light, all the trooper saw were boxes of wood and cardboard, behind which any number of rebels could be hi—

From behind him, dull crackles and buzzes of what sounded like electricity exploded, followed by the screams of his fellow comrades. Snapping around, he was met with the horrific sight of his entire unit shaking like victims of a mass epileptic paroxysm, their clothes catching fire and their flesh smouldering like lush green leaves on a bonfire as thick arcs of bright green lightning flashed all around their vibrating bodies.

Just before the violent attack ceased, the soldier felt a cold, knobbly claw press against the small of his neck, just below his helmet.

"Return to the void, from which you came!" the Vortigaunt crowed tauntingly, his long fingers crackling with viridian static as he released the bolts of lightning into the soldier's head, his skull exploding from beneath his skin and the flesh and mask peeling away as they smouldered acridly atop his smoking neck.

As the soldier's lifeless body fell to the ground, his head looking for all the world like a dark red banana peel, the Vortigaunt stepped past it and headed into the main hallway, where upon the three others met him. "We have had great success against the Combine forces that oppose us," the cyclopean aliens reminded his brethren, "but such victory will be for naught lest we find the Freeman and assure his protection. Peace would otherwise be impossible."

The Vortigaunts nodded their gnarled heads solemnly, voicing quite words of agreement. "Let us proceed, then." Another of the Xen creatures decided, and the group headed off, in search of their salvation.

—

His teeth gritted, Magnusson pulled himself back inside the doorway as high-pitched pings and booming cracks resounded all around him. His Romanian Kalashnikov pointed at the roof of the small, concrete segment of the facility between the elevated path leading to the hangar and the door to the Command Centre, Magnusson spat tensely and swung himself back around the side of the door, firing indiscriminately at the sparse horde of soldiers on the hillside just outside White Forest's perimeter, the one housing the subterranean silo that had launched the devastating rocket at the Combine homeworld the year before. Miraculously, one of the soldiers was thrust to the ground, pivoting on his right foot from a gunshot to the shoulder before falling dully onto the grass.

Again, the enemy sprayed back, forcing Magnusson back inside his little shelter to pant and wipe the beads of sweat running down his forehead. Heading back inside the Command Centre, Magnusson found that quite a few of the rebels still remained there, as well as the French general, who had arrived a while earlier after landing Helix One in the roofless hangar. "Magnusson," the general spotted him, weaving between the computer consoles over to the weary scientist, "do you think I'd be helping quite a bit more if I, say, got back in Helix One and blasted the shit out of them from the air?"

Magnusson, too worn out to make a sarcastic comment, just sighed deeply and nodded. "That'd be nice." He muttered, rubbing his forehead with the back of his free hand, his Kalashnikov hanging loosely by his side. "You'll need covering fire, I take it?"

The general nodded. "Preferably so."

"Right." Magnusson smiled weakly, trying to give the general a feeling of security. It didn't work. "People!" he called out to the rabble of nervous rebels over at the large panoramic windows, who were watching the soldiers massing outside the facility while others tried to scale the cliffside blocking off the valley behind the base so as to enter from there. Some of them turned right away, others lingered a moment longer to watch if the enemy was making their move.

"The general's going back out there, see if he can't give us some air support," Magnusson explained, his gruff authoritative voice returning as he needed it. "Would some of you help give him some cover?"

A few of the rebels hurried over to their elderly leader, their grimy, anxious faces shining enthusiastically. "Excellent," Magnusson nodded, turning to the general. "Right, this should do." He patted the officer warmly on the shoulder, grinning tiredly again. "Good luck."

The general nodded back, "I'll try my best."

Magnusson patted him on the back, shaking his head wearily. He was too old, dammit, for all this fighting. He had none of Freeman's youthful energy; only his bitter hatred for the bastards that had ruined his planet drove him on.

As he and the general walked back out to the concrete entryway, the cluster of rebels right behind them, a feeling of deep remorse washed over him. Everyone had been killed in this fight... Eli, Kleiner, Alyx and Barney... countless Resistance members had sacrificed themselves to achieve some sort of peace in a world ransacked by an alien regime they didn't understand, completely oblivious to the fact that they were fighting a misunderstood benevolence that they'd wholeheartedly believed was evil from their limited human perspective.

All of them had died, knowing that those they loved would continue fighting a horrifically powerful enemy that they had only really shot in the leg.

Now, it was only him and Dr. Freeman, the last of the Black Mesa employees that had been there on that fateful day twenty one years ago, apart from their administrator Dr. Breen.

And as he walked those final steps up to the doorway, he made a resolution to himself that he would see the end of this battle, and he would commemorate every single person that had died trying to attain peace on Earth. When they made peace with the Universal Union, he would have a monument erected on whatever incredible planet was now the Capital in memory of their sacrifice, human and Combine and everything in between.

It was the least that they deserved.

Then he stepped into the light, swinging his assault rifle around the edge of the concrete doorframe, and with a burst of vengeful energy he squeezed back the trigger and cursed every one of those ignorantly patriotic fuckers standing outside the human race's place of refuge. Behind him, he felt a rush of air as the general bolted out from the doorway, sprinting across to the hangar as the enemy realised what was going on and tried to bring him down.

The other rebels returned fire, their lethal barrage battering the numerous host on the hillside into submission, forcing them to retreat out of their line of fire and leaving the general to dive victoriously through the rusted doorway leading into the hangar. With a exuberant cheer, Magnusson pulled himself back into safety as the rebels emptied their magazines and withdrew alongside him, smiling proudly at their success.

"Wonderful," Magnusson breathed joyfully, his shoulders sagging contentedly. "Those bastards won't know what hit them."

—

His jaw set, Victor kneeled beside her, wrapping her bleeding stomach with a torn piece of material. She moaned in agony, reminding Victor that he had no idea the extent of her internal injuries. Had the bullet fractured? Was she bleeding inside from hydrostatic shock?

Unable to do anything about this, he simply pressed on the wound and prayed Valentina would be alright.

A few metres away, the bodies of two Slovakian Combine lay in a dark puddle of their own blood, one of them missing half his forehead. The two of them had burst in on the rebel couple's hiding spot, one of them getting off a quick shot at Valentina before Victor had killed them both. Now, desperately trying not to lose her, Victor pressed the slowly dampening shred of material on her stomach and hoped that she would survive.

Somewhere out in the main corridors, Victor heard a muffled voice crackle through a Combine respirator. Gritting his teeth, he slowly released one of his hands from the wound and shakily reached for the 9mm on the ground beside him, picking the handgun up and cautiously edging around on his knees, moving over to beside Valentina so that he was facing what remained of the splintered door and pointing the firearm at it.

His breathing deepened, fearing that this might be the end of both of them. Looking down at her tearing eyes, his face softened warmly, "I love you." He whispered, as the footfalls grew louder.

Unable to reply any louder, Valentina's whisper was almost too quiet to reach his ears. "I love you too..."

As they sat there, waiting for the inevitable, Victor swallowed and tried to steady his gun arm. This was it, he thought. This was going to be the end.

A shadow appeared on the wall beyond their hiding place, stretched into a vivid silhouette of diabolic malevolence. Valentina whimpered softly, Victor wanted for all the world to comfort her but he couldn't, he couldn't even make a so—

Gunshot.

Blood splattered on the wall, and the ominous shadow dropped out of sight, followed by a dull thud.

Startled, Victor's arm tensed, his heart pounding. Valentina whimpered louder.

Then another shadow appeared, and another. From the side, Victor swore he could make out the skewed frame of large rimmed glasses...

And then Gordon Freeman stepped into their sight, holding a .357 Colt Python in the air and a pulse rifle by his side. Behind him, the loftily elegant figure of the Gman waited like an everpresent bodyguard. His fear washing away, Victor called out to the two, dropping his pistol and reapplying the other hand onto Valentina's wound.

Alerted by Victor's cry, Gordon snapped his head around, spotting the two kneeling in the darkness, light glinting weakly from the rebel's glossy handgun as it lay on the ground. Hurriedly, Gordon pushed open the ruined remains of the door and hit the minute flashlight on the upper left arm of his suit, the pinpoint sized torch lighting up the frightened couple on the ground. "What happened?" Gordon asked, his eyes slowly following the limp leg at the edge of his sight all the way to it and its comrade's bodies.

"Combine," Victor explained shakily, "they attacked us, they shot her."

Gordon examined the woman on the ground, noticing her eyes jammed shut from the evident pain she was experiencing. Pursing his lips, he turned around and looked at the Gman. "See if you can do something for her."

Nodding, the Gman stepped past Gordon and knelt before the injured woman. "And what course of procession did you have in mind yourself, Dr. Freeman?"

Smiling weakly, Gordon turned around and headed for the open doorway. "I'm going to continue the fight."

The Gman nodded to himself, looking into the desperate eyes of the rebel with the injured woman. "A reasonable decision," he noted calmly, placing a long finger on top of Victor's pressing hands softly. "Take Dog with you, though I doubt our separation will be prolonged."

Without another word, Gordon left.

The Gman smiled thinly to himself, dots of light bouncing off his damp lips. "Could you please remove your hand," he asked Victor, who obeyed without objection. His finger remaining in place above the damp cloth, the Gman simply lifted the finger in place, before curling it back up and removing the bloodstained rag from the wound, scrunching it in his clenched fist and opening it up before Victor's eyes.

Like the climactic element of a magician's trick, inside the crimson drenched cloth lay a squashed 4.6mm lead slug. His eyes widening in surprise, Victor glanced down at Valentina's stomach, realising that the wound had disappeared entirely, even the fabric of her denim uniform had stitched together seamlessly, as if it had never torn.

"How did you do that?" Victor asked, his voice a reverent whisper.

The Gman handed him the strip of cloth, smiling at him. "I was fortunate enough to come into existence as a predetermined entity selected to protect and defend the universe from depredation."

"You're an angel?"

A small chuckle escaped the Gman's lips, "if you wish to entitle me as such, you are welcome to. However, your definition may not entirely conform to my purpose. For example, I am not a messenger from God, though the faction to whom I belong serves almost directly under His authority."

Looking down at Valentina's peaceful expression, Victor smiled. "Thank you," he muttered gratefully, "but I don't understand why you didn't just keep Gordon here, you only took a few seconds."

The Gman smiled back. "He has his own agenda, though he is not aware of it, and through his ignorance he will complete it. Besides, we wouldn't have had this conversation."

Victor frowned. "How can he not know about his own agenda?"

"He did not determine it himself," the Gman answered. "Rather, the destiny that I selected for him did. I chose him, twenty one years ago, to be the saviour of the human race. Every since the Black Mesa Incident, all those years ago, he has been filling out that agenda without the knowledge that he was doing so. Even though he knows I selected his fate, he is unaware of when the tasks on that agenda are fulfilled by his actions because he does not know what they are."

"He's your puppet?"

"Far from it," the Gman objected, standing up in the darkness, the light filtering in from behind him silhouetting his sharp features. "I simply decided the path he would take. How he would accomplish the tasks that he encountered on that path was entirely up to his own discretion... with a little subtle assistance from myself along the way."

And with that, he left.

—

Breen dragged himself, coughing and spluttering from the haze of smoke billowing all around him, from the remains of the personnel carrier they'd just been driving. Things had been going fine, until they'd been spotted by a rocket squad far away enough to fire at them without being in danger of counterattack, and things had gone downhill very quickly from there.

All around him, he saw bodies lying in the grass through the smokescreen, and beyond them he could see the masses running for them. Looking back into the flaming depths of the APC, his eyes tearing up from the sulphurous fumes, he could see a thick splatter of blood slowly running down the cockpit windows, and what seemed like a crushed limb hanging out from under the tinted glass.

Someone tapped him on his good shoulder, making him almost wet himself in fear. Looking up, he saw one of the soldiers standing above him, offering a hand to help him up. Taking it, Breen got to his feet. "How many survived?" he asked worriedly, noticing a large gash stretching the length of the soldier's right arm.

The soldier gestured to two other Swiss troopers kneeling on the ground just behind the burning vehicle, one of them reloading his rifle. "Only us four, sir." He explained grimly. "The lieutenant flew off the side when the rockets hit, but he didn't fly far enough."

Breen looked tentatively back at the limb lying under the shattered window. His eyes widened. "Everyone else died too?"

The soldier nodded, pointing at the bodies lying beyond the thin trail of smoke billowing around them. "All of them."  
Breen bowed his head in remorse. "Sir, we don't have time to mourn the dead..." the soldier insisted, holding out the stock of an MP7 to his amputee administrator.

Breen studied the submachine gun, before shaking his head. "I'm in no condition to fire an automatic weapon," he reminded the soldier, pointing at the area where one's left arm would usually be located.

The soldier nodded slowly. "Well, do you still have your pistol?"

Breen pulled it out from inside his suit jacket, showing him. "Right," the soldier hoisted the MP7, loading a large, yellow tipped rocket-shaped object into the lower barrel. "There are only four of us now, and there's a hell of a lot of angry soldiers coming after us."

Turning around fully Breen held the grip of his pistol against his chest and pushed the slide back with the same hand, fumbling to reach the grip. "This isn't going to be fun..." he muttered lethargically, as the other two soldiers took up positions behind a nearby piece of charred debris.

"You're telling me." The soldier snorted, squeezing his submachine gun's secondary trigger. With a hollow, popping _whoosh _the yellow-tipped explosive rocketed out of the underslung launcher, sailing through the air toward the advancing army before arcing and falling directly into their midst, detonating in a shower of dirt, fire and smouldering bodies.

And then, the four desperate fighters opened fire on the oncoming swarm of Slovakian troopers.

—

"Dammit!" Gordon swore, kicking the heavy blast door with his boot, resting his hand against it indolently. "We're in lockdown, aren't we?"

Dog whirred affirmatively, seemingly unperturbed in stark contrast to Gordon's tension. Groaning, Gordon thumped the thick metal with his fist, turning around and looking out at all the communications machinery on the far side of the access unit. Gordon had been hoping to get to the lower levels via Silo 1, in hopes of getting to the armoury down there. Not a very smart tactic, having the armoury in the sector locked out during an attack. Then again, most people had their weapons with them all the time and there were ammo dumps on surface level, so it wasn't really a problem.

"At least that means the Combine aren't down there..." he muttered, trying to look on the bright side. "Right, I think the base is pretty much secure by now." He looked up at Dog, smiling. "I mean, the shock unit seems to have been dealt with and the lieutenant and his boys are in the APC, plus I bet the general's back in Helix One by now."

Gordon sighed. The battle hadn't been all that thrilling. Or maybe he didn't get euphoria from killing the Combine anymore. Too many people had died, most of them fighting for the wrong thing. "Do you know where Dr. Magnusson is, Dog?" Gordon asked the mechanical companion. Whining negatively, Dog shook his head, the thick wires hanging limply around it shaking loosely. Gordon pursed his lips. "And where did the Gman go?" he asked suddenly, looking around. Rolling his eyes, he grunted exasperatedly. "Alright, Dog, we're going to the infirmary. He probably took that poor woman there."

Obediently, Dog followed.

—

Magnusson's eyes locked onto the opening door, his Kalashnikov trained on its slowly widening doorway. A few other rebels watched it nervously, their rifles at the ready.

Walking calmly through the door, the Gman gave an affable wave to the restive scientist by the launch controls. "Afternoon, Dr. Magnusson."

Relaxing, Magnusson lowered his rifle, the others standing down. "Gman, you're here."  
The Gman closed the door quietly, striding genially over to where Magnusson stood. "I trust your progression has been relatively successful?"

"Everything's fabulous here," Magnusson agreed, an unusual tone of cheeriness in his voice, looking out the window at the plethora of bleeding corpses splayed across the hillside, the ground stained in blood and churned up by heavy aircraft gunfire. "The general took care of them not ten minutes ago, he should be back here soon."

The Gman nodded, eyeing the rifle hanging by the scientist's side. "Taking into account the fact that, while the forces outside are being decisively dealt with, you are still arming yourself I would hypothesise you fear the shock team beyond your door remains in a state of effective functionality..."

—

Unable to see anything beyond the distorted image of the infirmary's frosted glass windows, Gordon reached for the handle and slowly edged inside, leaving Dog watching curiously through the small gap in the doorway that he was too big to fit through.

"_...I believe affirmation of the enemy's incapacitation is in order, so as to encourage you of the relative safety you are in." The Gman asserted encouragingly._

There was blood on the wall: fresh, running slowly down the sanitary white paint in tiny tangent droplets and of ambiguous origin... was it dark enough to be Combine blood? The subtle differences between theirs and that of Gordon's fellow man were difficult to discern without the other to compare to.

_Magnusson seemed a little incredulous, "so, the base has been liberated inside?"_

A shadow, bouncing off the wall for merely a second, instantly heightening Gordon's senses and instinctively forcing him to crouch behind the operating table in the middle of the room. They were in Dr. Taylor's office.

"_While I haven't yet confirmed that personally, I doubt more than a trickle of the shattered unit remains. Trust me, Dr. Magnusson, we've won this battle."_

They? Was it they, or was it only Ms. Simone Taylor, alone, by herself? He'd only seen one shadow... but then where had the blood come from...?

"_Well, that's a relief." Magnusson wiped his forehead, flicking the safety on his rifle. "Oh, Gman, did you happen to come across Gordon? Seeing as the general is here and all..."_

Slowly, Gordon crept over to the open doorway of Dr. Taylor's office, his gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the alien pulse rifle's handguard. Watching his shadow on the ground and checking it wasn't in the doorway, Gordon looked up and examined the opposite side of the doorway. It was against a wall, so he would be spotted if he tried to wait there. Better to have a shadow on the ground than one on the wall from a position where you're visible.

_The Gman smiled. "Yes, I did meet Dr. Freeman, outside your office."_

Maintaining his breathing, Gordon checked his rifle once more. He was going in.

"_Where is he now, then?"_

Something clicked from behind his head. Gordon froze, his eyes looking down at the ground and noticing his shadow had changed shape around the bottom.

_Gazing up at the cracked clock on the wall high above them, the Gman gave a quiet 'hmm' of casual approval, "I'd say he's about to get shot in the infirmary." He answered with a smile._

"Put the rifle down." The soldier ordered from behind him.

Something flashed in his mind. _Where have I had this happen before?_

The honest answer was nowhere, the last time someone had pointed a gun at him and caught him of guard had been in Belarus, and the guy had been pointing a Magnum in his face. Gordon had ended _that_ little escapade by breaking the soldier's arm with his uncocked shotgun. He'd also let the guy go and he was probably still alive somewhere.

Things were different now. Too many variables to make a good decision. For one, he hadn't told him not to move, he'd immediately told him to put the rifle down. Bad sign, less time to think.

Slowly, Gordon lowered the rifle, placing it gently on the ground.

Another one of the numerous problems: he didn't know how far away the gun was from his head. The muzzle wasn't pressed against his head, but he had been close enough to hear the hammer click when whoever it was had cocked his weapon. That meant it definitely wasn't an automatic weapon and probably wasn't a shotgun, seeing as the Overwatch didn't use lever-action shotguns and he doubted this guy had just picked up an old 20th century one from the cupboard.

That narrowed his options down. The gun was a handgun of some sort, probably a revolver by the sound of the hammer. The USP Match had a distinctly different click, much more hollow. So it was another Colt Python. Easy enough.

"Good." The soldier was now being affable, trying to encourage Gordon's compliance. "Now, stand up."

Gordon did so, thinking about what to do. The guy hadn't shot him yet, which was a good sign. Perhaps he was going to take him to someone... to be killed. Or maybe he was considering doing something melodramatic before doing the killing himself.

"Well, Dr. Freeman, if you continue following my instructions like this, things should work out excellently. I won't be forced to kill you..."

_Forced _to kill him. Critical wording right there, suggesting that despite having innumerable reasons to blow his brains out the soldier was under subordinate obligation _restricting _him from killing Gordon. Seeing as he was indeed a soldier, this restriction had obviously been enacted by a higher authority, one of the officers of whatever bastard unit this guy was from. In other words, he'd been ordered not to kill him.

In his mind, Gordon had already settled for action. The soldier was obviously trying to unnerve him, reminding him that he was in a position to kill him but he _wouldn't _should he continue to obey his orders. But Gordon wasn't an idiot, he knew how loyal and patriotic the Combine were. All he needed to do was think of the French general, so undyingly bound to his loyalty to the Prime Advisors that he launched a coup against the local legislation just to fulfil their commands, and he knew that this guy wouldn't go against the orders of his superior just because Gordon tried to fight back. If he tried to fight back, Gordon guessed he would be knocked unconscio... oh shit.

The soldier kept talking, holding the barrel of his revolver tightly as he silently raised the butt to smack Gordon over the head. "... and yo—"

It had required a hell of a lot of speculation, but Gordon had decided it was the most likely to bear fruit. Spinning around, Gordon reached up and grabbed the soldier's arm, which was exactly where he'd estimated it to be. In a moment of shock, the soldier tried to lash out with his other arm, but Gordon had already brought his knee up into his padded stomach and winded him.

Slapping his right hand down on the agonised soldier's left shoulder, Gordon twisted the arm holding the revolver by the barrel, causing him to drop the handgun and scream in pain as Gordon threw him to the left, sending him crashing into the operating table. Kneeling down to pick up his revolver, Gordon scooped it up and swiftly flipped the grip around so it was in his hand.

"Checkmate." Gordon offered humourlessly, getting to his feet.

The soldier, quite shaken by the incident, almost laughed. "You're stronger than you look." He admitted, his arm hanging limp as he lay on the ground against the operating table.

Gordon smiled thinly, before he frowned. "Hang on..." he examined the trooper's uniform. "You're not Slovakian..."

"Don't move, Freeman."

Apparently, the people in Dr. Taylor's office had been the Combine, and there had been more than one. Gordon could see two shadows skewed across the wall to his left.

Gordon's first thought was an irritated, 'not again', before he realised the ramifications of the two soldiers being in Simone's office and the annoyance was replaced with deep concern. "What did you do to the nurse here?" he asked, his revolver still pointed at the soldier on the ground.

"There wasn't a nurse here." One of the soldiers replied. "Only a little man that we shot. You saw his blood on the wall."

Gordon didn't know if they were telling the truth or not. He didn't see any reason for them to lie, but there also wasn't any reason for them to tell the truth. Besides, the soldier was quick to respond and if they had killed her they'd have probably said so after he asked, to dishearten him. At least he assumed they were being truthful.

Another thing came to mind: where was the Gman? Apparently, he hadn't brought the injured woman here. Did he just leave her there? Of course, he'd never explicitly said where he was going...

One of the soldiers spoke into his mike. "Colonel, sir. We've got Freeman."

Muffled and distorted by white noise, the colonel's response was curt. _"Good. Meet us back at the chopper ASAP, half the unit's been terminated."_

Gordon smiled to himself. That was good news.

"Alright, Freeman, drop the gun." One of the two soldiers ordered, his own handgun trained on Gordon's arm. Non-lethal force was essential, otherwise they'd get the chop from the colonel.

Gordon looked back at the doorway he'd entered through not long ago, noticing it had been completely closed. Had Dog left, perhaps gone to look for help? Whatever the case, he didn't have time to worry. He was on his own, against two armed soldiers standing at about seven o'clock to his position. Taking that into account, Gordon considered how to decrease their reaction time.

The last two times he'd done it he'd made his move when the assailants were talking. No one expected interruption from a man at gunpoint.

"I said dro—"

Gordon bolted toward the operating table, ducking down as he ran. Two gunshots rang out in unison, cracking and resonating in the enclosed space as they flew over Gordon's head, shattering the soundwave like thin glass against two rocks.

Just before he ran into the soldier lying against it, Gordon swung to the side, vaulting with his one free hand over the operating table and onto the other side as two more gunshots rang out.

Checking the hammer of his revolver, Gordon gritted his teeth. He hadn't been expecting gunfire, not when the mysterious colonel the soldier had been talking to wanted him alive. Apparently, that hadn't mattered.

One of the soldiers cursed impotently, throwing his handgun at the ground angrily. "What the hell do we do now?"

His comrade seemed bewildered. "What do you mean, he's on the other side of that operating table!"

"No shit, what I mean is we're not allowed to kill him and he can kill us. See the problem?"

His comrade paused. "Shoot him anyway. He dies, we blame it on the Slovakians."

Gordon couldn't believe what he was hearing. They were acting like a bickering duo of stupid petty criminals in a family movie, expect they were swearing like sailors.

"I just told the general we've got Freeman. If he turns up dead, who's he going to think ki—"

In the blink of an eye, Gordon was up. With a quick double tap, both of the soldiers were thrown backward into Dr. Taylor's office, one of them crashing into a nearby desk and sending blood splattered papers fluttering around the room. Throwing his revolver into the far corner of the room, he jumped back over the operating table and grabbed his rifle from the ground, where he'd left it. Looking back at the speechless trooper still lying on the ground, Gordon knelt down beside him. "Where's that chopper your colonel was talking about?"

The soldier looked up at him, his visage indifference manifest in synthetics. "At the front of the facility..." he answered, utterly uncaring what the consequences for revealing that little fact might be.

Standing back up, Gordon simply shook his head and walked back around him, pulling the door open and slamming it shut behind him.

Bounding from the shadows, Dog greeted Gordon gleefully, jumping up and down and whooping energetically. "Dog, you're still here," Gordon smiled, the sight of Dog alone filling his with confidence.

Dog nodded his mechanical head proudly, his cyclopean eye wide with excitement.

"Alright, boy, you come with me. I'm going to need your help."

—

His arm was numb, his hand was shaking and there was a feeling of unrivalled dread coursing through his every vein. There was no denying that this was probably his last stand, picking away with a measly 9mm at the incoming masses while the three loyal Swiss troopers with him held them off with their onslaught of automatic fire.

There they were, on the side of a grassy gradual slope, covered by the debris from their destroyed personnel carrier. The enemy was gathered behind Nature's various outcroppings, protruding from her surface and providing cover to the horde of soldiers.

Breen estimated around three hundred of them had congregated together, none of them ready to advance while all of them eager to do so. It was only a matter of time before they ran out of ammo, and then they would run for the sanctuary inside White Forest.

If they broke ranks, the enemy would be on them in an instant.

Grabbing the attention of the soldier beside him, Breen explained his intentions to retreat. "If you wish to accompany me, take refuge inside the facility," he offered, "then I won't stop you. But the enemy might try to overwhelm us should we all break ranks."

The soldier nodded. "Sir, you do what you have to. It's our duty to protect you."

Breen nodded back, aware of the Overwatch's fierce loyalty all too well. "Keep safe, soldier. Remember, you fight for unification, and not one of those soldiers over there can take that desire from you unless you let them."

For the human representative leader, he was fabulous for morale. "Will do, sir."

Breen nodded, patting the soldier on the shoulder. "Thank you."

And with that, he took off, running with his one arm pumping. The enemy, powerless to do anything under the heavy fire the three Swiss troopers were dealing out, could only watch as he ran for the wire-mesh fence and scrambled over it, dropping to the ground beyond and heading for the facility.

Glancing hurriedly at him as he ran, the soldier returned his focus to suppressing the enemy. The others battered the enemy ranks mercilessly, pounding their infantry with everything they had.

Drained capsules and empty casings covered the ground as the soldiers well-stocked loadout began to diminish. Eventually, after brutally defending for ten minutes, the soldiers realised they were down to their last few rounds.

Unperturbed by this revelation, they slammed the final munitions into their rifles, wrenching back charging handles and flicking cycle-latches as they prepared for the end.

And as they opened fire, they heard the roar of helicopter blades, high in the sky, as a black smudge flew out from behind the enemy forces and rained down brilliant streams of radiant gunfire, pulse rounds glowing bright azure and gold as they pounded the enemy and mutilated their bodies, spraying the earth with crimson fertiliser.

When the soldiers realised it was all over, they collapsed on the ground out of sheer relief that they'd finally fought their last.

The general, spotting them from above, lowered the helicopter to the ground, blowing up loose soil and rustling the millions of viridian grass blades. Throwing the cabin doors wide, he waved for the soldiers to join him. Slowly, they climbed to their feet and stumbled inside, two of them falling on the floor in exhaustion.

Suddenly, the general realised something. "Where's Dr. Breen?"

The soldier slumped in one of the seats looked up. "We covered his back while he ran for the base. I saw him make it."

The general nodded, resting against the frame of the cockpit door. "Thanks."

The soldier gave a weary thumbs up, and the general returned to the cockpit. As the chopper lifted into the reddening afternoon sky, the general gazed down at the multitude of corpses littering the bloody ground.

_Quelling insurrection is law enforcement... _he thought to himself ... _it doesn't matter who the enemy is._

—

Running from the crumpled blast doors covering the entrance to the southern bunker, the colonel and his four remaining men spotted their chopper waiting for them before a backdrop of ruined fencing and burning debris, left over from the insurgents' blitz an hour ago. Their attack was majorly a debacle, with over half the colonel's select unit eradicated inside those endless corridors by the guerrilla tactics of the rebel scum, human, Vortigaunt and even their own Overwatch brethren alike.

Such contempt for equitable authority was disgusting.

Reaching the chopper, the colonel lowered his rifle and grabbed the thick metal handle welded to the cabin door, wrenching it back on its guide an—

A flurry of rusted metal and faded paint filled his vision, followed immediately by the crushing force of what seemed like a sentient hunk of whirring mechanisms. Outside of this all-encompassing ball of mobile alloys, he heard muffled gunshots ring out and the chatter of pulse rifle automatic fire. There were garbled Combine screams, and something wet splattered against the ball of metal, echoing inside the claustrophobic space in which he was incarcerated.

Slowly, the mechanisms operated and the machine opened up, light flooding in and giving the colonel a clear view of the bodies of his subordinates lying lifelessly in the grass, bleeding out across the ground.

Looking up at his captor, he saw the dented body of a Scanner, crudely fitted to a mass of mismatched machine parts and thick power lines running from the mechanical canid's body to its four powerful limbs and its salvaged Scanner head. Behind it, he saw none other than the form of Gordon Freeman, holding a grimy pulse rifle menacingly in his hands.

Then, he was tossed unceremoniously into the cabin, crashing down on the hard floor as the towering robot jumped inside and slammed the doors shut.

_This shit cannot be happening... _the colonel thought to himself.

Gordon cocked an eyebrow, dropping his rifle on a nearby seat and sitting down beside it, clapping his hands together as if to taunt his prisoner. "You're Belgian, aren't you? Sent straight from the Advisors pit in Geneva, after you recaptured it and crushed our little coup?"

"You'd better believe it." The colonel snarled, climbing to his feet and realising that his rifle now lay on the blood splattered grass outside.

Gordon waved at the wide seat lining the wall behind the colonel. "Take a seat, please."

The colonel seemed sceptic of Gordon's intentions, causing him to roll his eyes in exasperation at the officer's distrust. "Geez, I offered you a freaking seat on your _own_ helicopter! What, do you think I wired it to explode or something? Just sit the hell down!"

Slowly, the colonel did. In retrospect, it was rather stupid to suspect the legitimacy of one offering a seat. Gordon seemed much too amiable to be genuine.

"Right," Gordon clasped his hands together, "now that you've overcome your completely unreasonable suspicion of me, let's get down to business... why did you want to capture me? I thought the Combine modus operandi when dealing with rebellion was to blow all the conspirators to kingdom come."

The colonel was taken aback by the scientist's cordiality, especially for someone notoriously good at murdering his comrades. Seeing no reason to refuse him an answer, the colonel went ahead. "The Advisors requested you be returned to Geneva alive." He replied, with a somewhat less genial tone, verging on monotonic.

"So they could, what, interrogate me? Just keep me a prisoner?"

"I believe they wished to confine you until the evacuation fleet arrives in seven or so months from now, where you could be taken to the Capital and be tried by the Prime Advisors."

Gordon smiled. "You do realise that your orders were to conquer the planet to unify it, right?"

"Of course."

"That's exactly what the Advisors are trying to prevent, and what the French general actually achieved before you came in and rained on his parade. You guys conquered us, and then I started the little rebellion and the Advisors got their pants in a twist, didn't they? Tried to crush it, then we did some serious shit and then they blew the other me up with a nuke." Gordon watched the colonel coolly. "Why'd the Advisors see fit to use a nuclear bomb on me, sacrificing all those soldiers? All they did was spark up the general's coup. Then again... if they hadn't used that warhead, we wouldn't be sitting here right now, would we? We'd still be shooting at each other, trying pointlessly to achieve victory when we could just do what you were supposed to in the first place."

"Dr. Freeman, your viewpoint stems from the general's corrupt words," the colonel answered, trying to keep a cool head. After all, that giant robot looked ready to draw and quarter him _by itself_. "As you were not given those orders by the Prime Advisors personally, you cannot comment."

"So what did they say?" Gordon demanded. "If my viewpoint is biased because of my ignorance, please feel free to enlighten me."

The colonel said nothing. "So I'm right." Gordon concluded, satisfied.

"You only see things from the general's perspective," the colonel insisted. "You don't take into account that he has committed insubordination and insurrection against the authority of the Advisors..."

"Who is the ultimate authority in the Combine hierarchy, colonel?"  
The colonel sat forward in his chair. "Dr. Freeman, to whom the ultimate loyalty is due is up to individual discretion. One can either follow the local administration, or the direct orders of the Prime Advisors."

"And you follow the former, am I right?"

"Without contact to the Capital and whoever has succeeded the Prime Advisors _you _destroyed last year, loyalty to local administration is the most logical course of action."

"Even when they started going against what the Prime Advisors ordered?"

"The Advisors have _not _gone against the Prime Advisors instructions." The colonel growled. "Our orders were as any other offworld conquest: conquer the planet and maintain the peace with interim legislation until public colonisation and official autonomy is attained."

Gordon frowned. "Autonomy?"

"Political independence as a sovereign state of the Combine Empire. It is like the human nation, the Commonwealth of Australia. It was a sovereign state loyal to the throne of the United Kingdom, wasn't it?"

Gordon nodded. "I know how self-governing states work, colonel. I'm just not good with world politics." He leaned back in his seat. "So, you become officially self-governed. When does that usually happen?"

"Fifty years after initial conquest is complete. Yours took seven hours, if I remember correctly."

Gordon nodded grimly. "I've heard."

"And you obviously understand why this planet is in such a dysfunctional state now, don't you, from what I've said?"

Gordon nodded. "First of all, the only people here were the military and the Advisors' local government. No civil population whatsoever, other than our own, and that meant no Combine economy. Secondly, I came along after twenty years and started an insurrection that led to the Citadel's destruction." He paused. It all made sense now, how the Combine functioned. "So Dr. Breen was basically given authority because he was human and seemed capable?"

"He was the one that proposed your military stood down and submitted," the colonel explained, with a hint of superiority in his tone, "so we decided he would be a smart choice as human ambassador. Sadly, nobody believed he was telling the truth about us."

"Right..." Gordon nodded. "And because there wasn't a civilian population, you had to establish a military-run economy... which involved drastic measures like draining the oceans, I'm guessing?"

"We are unconcerned with the aesthetic ramifications when providing for a colony's population," the colonel explained. "After all, when we receive official autonomy and public colonisation commences, your planet will gradually become like our own."

"And how would you have done that?"

The colonel clasped his hands together, trying to be diplomatic about how he expressed his next few answers. "Dr. Freeman, we may sound like terrible people to you. Originally, we had no idea how other societies viewed our ethics. We believed they shared our views and accepted them. We had no idea that some, like the human race, would see the way were functioned as a society was malign."

"How would you have made Earth like your own planets?" Gordon repeated, a slow feeling of dread creeping up from the pit of his stomach.

The colonel sighed, seeing no reason to hold back. "Draining the oceans and using the water for economic purposes was only one part. We would level out the surface of the planet and convert the atmosphere to our own vonoxis-gas compound, our natural air. By this time, your entire species would have been converted to transhuman-Combine and conscripted into the Overwatch... or killed off. Once a civilian population had been set up, all conscripted transhuman-Overwatch members would be relieved of duty, free to live their lives as they wished in their new bodies, embracing their new selves."

Gordon just stared at the colonel in disgust. "Your idea of unity is total annihilation of what makes the natives distinct? You conquer _us_ so you can strip our humanity from us?"

"Dr. Freeman, you have to remember we had no idea such ethics were viewed negatively by other societies... the Combine Empire believed it is the only true way to unite."

"Do you think we'd accept unification with your Empire if you treated us as _allies, _rather than as targets for your imperialist society? If you came to us as peaceful ambassadors rather than brutal conquerors, offering prosperity rather than involuntary and compulsory subjugation, do you think we'd want to join you?"

The colonel bowed his head. "Dr. Freeman... our society is not flawless, despite what we may like to believe. But you have to understand we _didn't know there would be objections _to our operations."

"So you thought that conquest would be received favourably, is that it?"

"Freeman, we didn't _know!_" the colonel insisted frustratedly. "As you can see, our society is far different from yours, and even more so from the Fissionist Faction! We had no one to consult with concerning unification, especially when our earliest proposition was unanimously rejected by every other society with which we had contact."

"Yeah, the Swedish general told me about that." Gordon admitted, nodding. "Nobody wanted to join you, and you guys didn't see a problem with conquest in the pursuit of unity so you went ahead with it, and _we_ saw a problem, and so I started a big rebellion and you didn't like that and everything from the past year happened and now we're sitting here talking like what the Combine _should have done in the first place_."

The colonel leaned back in his seat. "Freeman, I don't like you. Not because of your views, but because you've killed at least three of my men, probably the others that told me you were in their custody."

"I killed two of them." Gordon explained, sensing the colonel's returned hostility easily. "One of them I left, because he didn't try and shoot me."

"Regardless, you've killed my men and allied with the traitors."

"You said earlier I was judging everything by the general's viewpoint. Look who's talking."

"They _are _traitors."

"That's a matter of opinion, you said that it was up to individual discretion to decide to whom the highest loyalty was due."

"And the general and I have different opinions on that matter, and when those differences call on me to fight I have no reason to stand down and allow my beliefs to be crushed."

"You're fighting because you believe the Advisors are doing the right thing, while the general believes they aren't."

"Exactly."

"Well, how about you go back to Switzerland and tell the Advisors everything we just talked about."

The colonel froze. The entire time he'd been sitting here he'd been trying to forget that Gordon was going to kill him at the end of this. But apparently, that wasn't the case. "You're... letting me go?"

Gordon smiled, his lips drenched in mocking satire. "Did I ever say I would kill you? Did you just assume I would because I've killed your comrades? No, what _you _don't understand about me is that I'm _not _a cold-blooded killer."

"That's not the image you show off."

"That's also what the general told me..." Gordon agreed. "... and that's because neither of you had seen me outside of combat, acting like a diplomat as I am now." Pausing for effect, Gordon leaned back in his seat. "You know the Siberian general, the one that delivered the nuke to the Advisors?"

The colonel nodded slowly.

"I killed him for that, blew his head to pieces while he was refuelling in Belarus..." Gordon whispered. "Before I found him, someone pointed a gun at me and told me to drop my uncocked shotgun."

The colonel didn't know where this was going, but he was interested to hear.

"Do you know what I did?"

"No," the colonel admitted blankly.

"I _ducked under_ the bullet and broke his arm with my shotgun. Then I asked him where the general was, and when he told me I gave him his gun back and told him he was free to go."

The colonel didn't try to hide his disbelief. "You wouldn't do that."

"Oh really?" Gordon looked over at Dog. "Come on boy, let's go."

Nodding enthusiastically, Dog pulled open the cabin doors and bounded through. Gordon got to his feet, grabbed his rifle from the chair beside him and headed out the door. The colonel watched him bend over and pick up him own rifle from the bloodied grass, tossing it back inside the cabin. "Wouldn't I?" Gordon asked.

The colonel stared at his rifle, lying on the floor.

"Do you know what I told that soldier, after I offered him his gun?"

The colonel didn't reply.

"I wouldn't try and hurt him again. And if he tried to hurt me, then I would kill him." Gordon shrugged. "He didn't shoot me."

With that, Gordon turned around and headed back toward White Forest, satisfied with himself and glad that they'd libe—

From somewhere behind him, there was a deafening gunshot.

* * *

**This isn't the end, people. There's something BIG coming up, and it's going to be one hell of a shock. **


	33. Thirty Two: Unforseen Consequences

**-=Chapter Thirty Two: Unforseen Consequences=-**

**White Forest, 4:17 PM**

Standing in the metal doorway of the cabin, his blood speckled rifle still lying on the cold metal floor, the colonel held the smoking Colt Python revolver he'd whisked from his holster after Freeman had turned and left.

The bullet had crashed straight into the scientist's upper back, spraying blood out and staining the suit's orange painted back. And as he watched Gordon fall to the ground, the colonel quickly slammed the door shut and holstered the revolver, heading into the cockpit and hurriedly sitting himself down.

Glancing nervously outside, the colonel froze mid-preparation as he saw Gordon climbing to him feet, a deep sneer plastered across his face and a fleck of blood on his cheek. In his hands he held his pulse rifle, and he was pointing the muzzle right at the cockpit.

Neither of them made a move.

Gordon nodded menacingly at the colonel, mouthing something that looked a hell of a lot like 'motherfucker'. The panicked officer knew exactly what he'd said and he quickly struggled to pull free his revolver. As he moved, Gordon squeezed the rifle's trigger, assaulting the cockpit's glass panes with a heavy onslaught of pulse fire. The powerful energy slugs pounded the glass, their powerful kinetic energy sending millions of tiny spiderweb cracks all across the panes. Desperately, the colonel threw himself to the ground, fumbling with his revolver as the glass exploded, showering down like glistening hailstones.

Scrambling to his feet, the colonel reached for the door handle, just as he saw Gordon wrench open the cabin doors through the tiny square window in the cockpit door. Spotting the officer's masked head, Gordon snapped up his rifle and pumped the window with rounds, the glass exploding and lodging itself in his mask as more gunfire flew through the shattered frame and bombarded the colonel's face, sending him flying backwards onto the cockpit dashboard and through the already damaged glass onto the ground below.

His vision blurry with blood and his face stinging from the multiple shards of glass poking into his pale flesh, the colonel tried to look around, turning his head to the side. Two boots landed on the grass not five metres away, and slowly their owner strode around to the front of the chopper and glared sinisterly at him, kicking him in the stomach.

"You know something, colonel," he snarled, his voice muffled and dull in the dying soldier's ears, "I hate killing people. I like what comes about because I kill... but I hate the action itself." He stared down at the cracked lenses over the officer's weak eyes. "I was hoping I _wouldn't _have to kill you, that you'd make the smart choice... shows how stupid you really are."

"How..." the colonel spluttered, before Gordon threw up his hands in annoyance. "I'm _Gordon Freeman, _you dumb little shit!" Gordon reminded him lividly. "See the suit? Try going for my _head _whenever the next time is!"

Something glinted in the afternoon light, at the bottom of Gordon's view. He smiled, kicking the colonel's hand and knocking the revolver clear of his feeble grip. "See, if you'd acted a little bit faster you could've had me. Maybe I'll let you go, give you another chance."

Then he pressed the barrel of his rifle against the colonel's chest and squeezed the trigger. The officer's body shook for a moment, before it lay still in a slowly trickling pool of blood.

"Actually, I'd hoped I wouldn't have to kill anyone after this. Guess you get the honour of being my last kill..." and with that, he turned and left, heading back toward the confused gargantuan Dog standing by the southern bunker's entrance, waiting for him.

—

"I'd like to remind you that the base is still in lockdown, until we have confirmed that all hostile presence has been eliminated." Magnusson announced over the P.A, staring out of the Command Centre's panoramic windows at the piles of bodies lying on the hillside. "Once we have affirmation that the facility is entirely liberated, we will proceed with calculating our losses."

The Gman tapped Magnusson on the shoulder gently, gaining the scientist's attention. "Ah yes, Gman," lowering the microphone, Magnusson looked up respectfully at the guardian, "what is it?"

"I have completed my investigation for remaining soldiers," he explained. "There were none. The shock troops were far inferior in quantity to the circumventing forces outside, which I see the general has taken decisive care of." He nodded at the myriad corpses outside.

Magnusson nodded. "It'll be a pain to get rid of them all..." he muttered wearily, raising the mike to his lips once more. "Attention, all personnel, we have confirmed that the facility is entirely liberated, I repeat, the facility is no longer under lockdown as it has been entirely liberated."

Muffed cheers erupted from somewhere outside. The Gman smiled. "Your people really are a jubilant species, you know that?" he told Magnusson, who raised an eyebrow. "Far less depressing than most of the others."

"Really?" Magnusson snorted. "We can be pretty grim at times, as you should know."

"Yes, but even after the occupation of Earth by the Combine, mankind has continued to celebrate even minor success as if it signalled a turn of the tide for the war."

"Well, it has now, hasn't it?" Magnusson asked.

The Gman smiled, though it conveyed a thinly veiled melancholy that Magnusson barely noticed. Slowly, he pursed his lips. "Possibly."

—

"Dr. Freeman..." the Gman began, clasping his hands together as if he were about to make a business proposition. "...there's something I think you should know..."

Gordon cocked his head, memories of the Gman's ambiguous comments earlier on returning in a flash. "About the general?"

The Gman paused. "Oh, no, that's not what I meant." He picked something up from under the table, placing it on the hard metal surface. "I just thought it would be nice if you knew Barney actually kept his promise to you."

There, in the Gman's dirty pianist hand, was an almost empty bottle of Romanian beer. Gordon's eyes widened. "Son of a gun..." Gordon whispered incredulously, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. "He actually got some..."

"He got it the day before you were resurrected," the Gman explained quietly. "I believe your other self was drinking it with Barney while I was in Rostock trying to free Alyx."

Gordon took the mostly drained bottle of lager, turning it in his hands. "Ursus..." he whispered, reading the faded label. "Damn, wonder where he got it from?"

"Inside the base, I'd imagine." The Gman smiled weakly.

Gordon looked up at him, smiling at the whole ludicrous situation. "Man, I wish everyone was here right now... for me, the only thing to look forward to is death, really, after we make peace with the Combine Empire whenever the hell they get here." Gordon swirled the tiny amount of glistening liquid in the bottle absent-mindedly, looking up at the Gman. "What do you think about the whole thing, Gman? Do you reckon we're gonna have to kill the Advisors to maintain the peace?"

The Gman's brow was furrowed, as if he were trying to solve a riddle in his mind. Noticing his expression, Gordon's nonchalant countenance changed. "What's wrong?"

The Gman bowed his head, his hands still clasped. "Dr. Freeman..." he whispered, his tone full of melancholic sadness. Realising that something was desperately amiss, Gordon straightened up awkwardly in his seat. "Gman, what's going on?"

The Gman pursed his lips, closing his eyes. "Peace with the Combine Empire is impossible."

Gordon wasn't sure what the Gman meant. "How so? I mean, all we need to do is get rid of the Advisors' obstruction and we're in the clear, right?"

"In the clear to what, Dr. Freeman?" the Gman asked sadly.

Gordon was confused by the Gman's question, knowing full well he had the answer. "You know, Gman," Gordon explained, unsure what was going on, "all we have to do is keep everything under control here until the evac fleet arrives, and then we show whoever's succeeded the Prime Advisors there's a better way to unite the universe... right?" Gordon stopped, watching the Gman. "Have you contacted the Combine or something?" he guessed, trying to figure out what was wrong. "Are they going to execute me for destroying the Capital?"

The Gman let out a feeble laugh. "Dr. Freeman... I'm sorry for not telling you earlier, but the other Members and I decided it would be for the best if we kept the information under wraps until a more suitable time."

Gordon's heart pounded, the Gman's tension scaring him deeply. "What...?"

"The Combine Empire has not existed since early May, Dr. Freeman."

Silence.

Unmoving, Gordon stared blankly at the Gman, wondering what the hell was going on in his mind. Was this some sort of joke? "_What?_" Gordon hissed unbelievingly. "How is that possible...? I mean, the Phyx told the Swedish general that an evacuation fleet was coming in seven months, and..."

"Who resurrected you, Dr. Freeman?" the Gman asked, his humourless tone further cementing the sick fear rising in Gordon's stomach.

Gordon froze, realising what the Gman meant. "Oh, no... no no no no no!" He ran his fingers through his hair frantically, trying to wake up from the nightmare into which he'd just entered.

"The Phyx were _lying, _Dr. Freeman."

"How do you know?" Gordon demanded, standing up suddenly, trying to escape the Gman as his words tore down everything he had fought for the past few days. "How do you know they were lying?"

"Do you remember what I told you when I first revealed my intentions to you, Dr. Freeman?"

"Of course I don't remember!" Gordon yelled angrily. "That was last bloody year!"

The Gman sighed deeply. "Let me give you a reminder, then."

Suddenly, without any intervening dissolve or anything similar, the scene changed, and they were standing next to a flickering apparition of themselves in the Council Chambers of the Fissionist Faction.

Gordon's mirage rubbed its forehead wearily_. "So... what happens now?" _it asked, its voice a celestial whisper. "_I mean, if the Combine has been cut off from us and you've launched an attack on their homeworld, what's next?"_

The Gman ghost chuckled eerily, like a chorus of angels chittering excitedly_. "Next, Dr. Freeman, we win the war against the Combine and _you_ destroy the Borealis."_

Then the apparition froze, fading away into the endless silence of the void. The Council Chambers remained, though, serving as an illusionary backdrop to their conversation.

"You guys were at war with the Combine..." Gordon remembered suddenly.

"That's right." The Gman agreed.

"And you destroyed the Combine Empire in May..."

"Seven months before you were raised from the dead, when the Combine was still our enemy."

"Why didn't you tell me when I was raised?" Gordon whispered.

The Gman shrugged. "It didn't come to mind. After all, it wasn't important, seeing as you were dealing with the Combine on Earth."

"But surely it would've encouraged me then..."

"As I said, the thought didn't come to mind."

Gordon groaned, his life spiralling down into the depths of darkness. This was too much. "How long did it take for the Phyx to get to Earth?" He mumbled lethargically, his energy completely drained by this revelation.

"About seven months."

"So they would've left pretty close to the fall of the Combine, right?"

The Gman nodded, gesturing to a glowing document that had just materialised beside the two, hovering to Gordon's right. "Our mercenary forces on Trysik were able to recover this transmission report from the Palace in the Capital City. It should give a bit of light on the situation."

Gordon looked at the floating report, scanning the text in weary fascination. It had apparently been translated to English:

—_**Universal Union Terran Operatives Transmission Report: **_

**CLASSIFIED INFORMATION**

_Data received by Combine Administration of Planet Trysik_

_Connection established via basic function Long-Range Digital Message Delivery Unit by Terran Combine Operatives at 5:18:56 PM Central European Time_

_Time elapsed between connection and signal loss: 0.82 seconds_

_Information received: 73 bytes of ASCII-encoded text_

_Displaying..._

—two anticitizens one dead send phyx to inferno abyss find body of soldier

_Phyx Unit departed from Trysik Special Operations Institute to Inferno Abyss Correctional Facility, Norbotten, Northern Sweden at 29:81:40 MV Global Capital Time._

_Awaiting further contact. _

"Two Anticitizens, one dead, send Phyx to Inferno Abyss to find body of soldier..." he whispered, shaking his head. "They wanted to resurrect Shephard, right?"

"That's what they did."

"Hang on..." Gordon frowned, reading the document. "Phyx Unit departed from Trysik Special Operations Institute... they were _training _the Phyx?"

"The Combine saw great benefit having troops with the ability to resurrect the dead."

"But the Phyx went ahead and betrayed the Combine once they were here."

"The natives of Trysik, like mankind, held their conquers in deep contempt," the Gman explained. "We believe the Advisors there did not waste time scrutinising them when we were almost upon them."  
"They knew you were attacking them?"

"By the time the Phyx left, the Combine Empire was on the brink of destruction. In their desperation, the Advisors sent the Phyx to Earth, hoping that the Advisors there would be informed of the Empire's situation by the Phyx so they could start anew on Earth."

"And the Phyx knew that's what they were supposed to do?"

"We believe they were in constant contact with the Advisors on Trysik while travelling to Earth... until we took over the planet."

"So the Phyx knew the Combine Empire had fallen, and they let the Combine here think that the situation was stable so that they wouldn't try to restart the Empire from Earth?"

"If their grip on Earth was lost, then the Combine Empire would be entirely eradicated."

"So at the moment, the Combine forces here on Earth are basically nomadic, right? Their nation doesn't exist anymore... because of _us..._" Gordon paused, realising the ramifications of what he'd just said. Opening his mouth to speak, Gordon tried to say something, but the words just wouldn't come out. Finally, he managed to whisper something, "Gman, we're _fucked_."

The scene flicked back to the staff room, entirely empty apart from the despondent physicist and the contemplative guardian. Gordon held his head in his hands, shaking it impotently. "You know why the general started his coup, right?"

The Gman nodded, completely aware of what Gordon was going for. "Their actions were insubordinate to the orders of the Prime Advisors."

"See, you _know_ that the reason this whole alliance exists _isn't_ because he wants peace on a personal level, it's all about maintaining his loyalty to the Prime Advisors!" Gordon squeaked frantically, "If he finds out that the Combine Empire fell at _our _hands, he's going to drink our blood! He'll skin us alive, cut up our bodies, burn them and piss on the ashes! Far as he'll be concerned, peace with the destroyers of his nation can go to hell!" Gordon ran his fingers down his face desperately. "Why couldn't you have just _told _me when I was rambling on about the Combine's true motives yesterday?"

"Dr. Freeman, if I had revealed the Combine Empire was destroyed yesterday, would you have made peace with the Overwatch? You said it yourself, if the Combine finds out then peace can go to hell!" the Gman reminded Gordon forcefully. "What would we have achieved that would be of any major significance? What were you intending on doing after taking revenge on the officers responsible for the nuking of Rostock?"

Gordon groaned exasperatedly. "That's not the point! The point is that as things stand now, the human race is one step away from getting royally screwed by the vengeful Overwatch!"

The Gman shook his head. "Not necessarily."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Gordon demanded angrily. "This isn't subjective, Gman, the Combine have zero tolerance for crime of any degree and if they find out that their Empire was destroyed by _us _they're going to come after each and every one of us thirsty for our blood!"

"You said that the alliance was made out of the general's commitment to his Empire," the Gman reminded Gordon. "Perhaps we could convince him the Prime Advisors would be lenient on the human race and my own Faction due to our ignorance and miscommunication?"

"Really?" Gordon snorted. "You really think the general is going to buy that the Prime Advisors, if they were to give judgement from the grave, would wave their hands and go, 'oh, don't worry about them, they didn't know they were doing anything wrong so let's all make peace and be happy?'"

"If we were to judge their actions against the nations of the universe by their own standards, they would be guilty of the crimes we have committed a hundred times over."

Gordon paused, considering the Gman's proposal. Could it work? Was there some way to salvage peace from this sudden debacle? Would the general accept that the Combine was guilty of even more than the human race, both of whom had acted out of ignorance? Well, unless the colonel had been bullshitting when he'd said they didn't know forced unity through conquest would be frowned upon by the rest of the universe.

Was it really possible for a society to be so focused on their own relative ethics that they didn't consider how others might think of their actions, believing their morals were universal?

And then Gordon realised something: Yes, it was. That was exactly what _they _had been like. The human race, labelling the Combine as evil by their own limited understanding of the relativity of ethics, had more in common with them than they'd first thought.

The Combine had opened their eyes... and now, they had a chance to return the favour.

"When should we tell him?" Gordon asked quietly, trying to sort everything out in his despairing mind. It had all crashed down around him, the hopes of alliance with a far superior species that he'd just discovered no longer existed beyond his own little home.

"The general?" the Gman inquired, confident that's who Gordon was talking about. Gordon nodded solemnly. "I'd suggest early tomorrow. We'll need to catch him by surprise," the Gman decided. "The news will affect him to a far greater level than it did to you. Perhaps, upon first realising the truth, he will be in a state of vengeful fury that will oblige him to kill us."

"Nice encouragement," Gordon muttered, the sarcasm dropping off somewhere as the words formed in his lethargic mouth.

"We have to make sure he is unarmed... I can take care of any physical opposition he may be inclined to present, but the psychological implications need to be taken into account also. For example, tying him up or locking him in a room while we explain what we've done is going to influence his mind while it is vulnerable, if he desires to kill us."

"So you want us to sit him down in a couch and just chat about it?"

"It would add a sense of security, show him we don't mean any hostility."

"He's still gonna try and kill us when we tell him."  
"Possibly," the Gman agreed. "But I hope the extent of such precipitant actions will be minimal."

"He's a smart guy, Gman," Gordon added, "but he's a diehard patriot; loyal as all hell."

"As I said, I have confidence that rationality will show him that maintaining peace would be consistent with that loyalty."

"But what if he _does _decide the Prime Advisors would rather he avenge their deaths and the destruction of the Combine Empire?"

The Gman pursed his lips. "Decisive action may need to be taken to rectify such a contingency."

—

Seven hours later, bathed in the darkness of his small bedroom, Gordon sat drearily on the thin sheets of his lumpy mattress as he languidly twirled his USP Match in his gloved hands. The bloody material of his stolen CP combat webbing lay still on his old wooden bedside table, casting a skewed silhouette from the light beyond his closed door across Gordon's forehead and giving an ominous glint in the physicist's contrastingly sharp eyes.

Or perhaps that was just the lenses of his large-framed glasses, for his eyes certainly had no reason to glimmer with the life and intelligence of a fit young man like him. He felt old, without purpose and on the verge of mild psychosis from the trauma he'd had to go through.

In his mind death had become the opposite of man's greatest consistent fear manifest. It was an unblemished gateway into an idyllic existence beyond the realms of this world and its inevitable mortal coil, and the bullets waiting eagerly in his pistol's magazine were the key to unlock the doorway into that higher pane of subsistence.

What was holding him back? Seeing this entire affair through to the end? If the Combine Empire was destroyed, what purpose did he have other than to kill everyone that would oppose the peace he and his friends desired?

After they attained peace, what would they do? Restart civilisation with the Combine, using what knowledge they had to aid them in that revival? Would they construct a global nation, or independent ones as they had before?

But what would be the _point _of restarting civilisation? The following generation would be born into a backward society, only able to pass on knowledge with which this current one was familiar. What if the Combine had killed everyone on Earth with advanced knowledge in visual arts? Would the next generation of mankind be taught the miracles of the Calabi-Yau Xen relay while the art of filmmaking disappeared entirely?

When Gordon's generation disappeared, who would teach those that came after the things that only they had known? And even if they learnt of these things, would they be able to practice them? Who would build the technology they required?

They would have to start again, reinvent everything that had come before. How long would that take?

But if there was one thing he knew for sure, he thought as he clasped the grip of the handgun and pressed the muzzle to his temple, he wouldn't be around to see it.

His finger squeezed on the trigger, a strange calm coming over him as... nothing happened. The gun clicked, but it wasn't the hollow click of a misfire, it was the dead man's click of an empty magazine.

But that was impossible. Gordon quickly pressed the magazine release, sliding the ostensibly empty magazine into his gloved hand and examining it. It was indeed empty.

The Gman opened his fingers slightly, the shells falling like silver rain onto his bed. "Not on my watch, Dr. Freeman."

Gordon looked up at him, shaking his head despairingly. "That's what you said last year... when Alyx was murdered." He made to grab the bullets from the sheet, but as his fingers waved over them they disintegrated, forming a pile of fine metal dust on his blankets.

"This time," the Gman whispered, "I'm not even going to allow the potential to exist."

"What have I got to live for, Gman?" Gordon pleaded, his face a mask of absolute despondency. "Even if we make peace with the Combine here, what'll happen after our generation dies out? Our children will live in ignorance, with nothing but their inherent nature to guide them. And then what? What little technological remnants of the past that remain here will lie unused as mankind tries to warm themselves in the night! Our technology will be alien to them, once we die out. Humanity will have reset, living in a world of infinite possibilities that they cannot even comprehend. They will be like children, wandering through the streets of our society will childlike awe."

"And that is why _you _and everyone of your generation has to preserve the knowledge, teach them what your parents taught you when you too were just a child."

"But the Combine ransacked our planet," Gordon insisted, "the oceans are drained, most of the animals are extinct and nearly all of our technology was destroyed. What's left isn't going to be enough."

"Well, then," the Gman decided, brushing off his lapels as if he were partaking in a minor business deal rather than convincing a suicidal man to live, "the Fissionist Faction will have to sort things out, won't we?"

Gordon stared up at him. "What?"

"I seem to recall Dr. Breen making a rather odd statement during the Uprising last year," the Gman smiled. "_It is futile to cry for mother's milk, when our true sustenance awaits us among the stars. _Obviously he was referring to the benefits of collaboration with the Combine, but I think future generations will relate it to us."

"Wait..." Gordon couldn't believe what he was hearing, "you'll _parent _the human race once we're gone?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking... that's what we've always done." The Gman admitted. "We are your guardians, Dr. Freeman. Not just for the human race, but all the inhabitants of the universe. I'm sure we could help mankind recover its past glory."

Gordon looked down at the pistol in his hand, smiling. "I'm going to end this, Gman." He whispered, placing the handgun on the lumpy mattress resolutely. "I don't know how exactly... but I'm going to do it."

The Gman's smile widened. "If the general is as smart a man as you, he'll be able to see rationally as you just have."

Gordon nodded. "Thanks, Gman."

"Always a pleasure, Dr. Freeman." The Gman offered brightly, disappearing into the shadows.

Sitting there in silence, Gordon thought about what the Gman had said. Then, picking up his pistol again, Gordon examined it once more.

And then he placed it on his bedside table, and tried to think. If rationality had brought him from the brink of suicide and the Gman was confident it could show the general that peace would be the ultimate fulfilment of his loyalty to his throne... then perhaps it too was the means to the end of all this.

* * *

**And that, my friends, is how you throw curveball in a story.**

**Don't worry, it's not going to increase the story's length. This is the second last chapter, and after the next will be the epilogue. Until then, I hope this keeps you all craving the conclusion, because I'm sure as hell craving when I can finally give it to you all.  
**


	34. Thirty Three: Reversion

**-=Chapter Thirty Three: Reversion=-**

**White Forest, 8:21 AM**

Rapping hollowly on the frosted glass, the Gman peered through it and tried to make out any colourful blobs moving around inside the infirmary. He could make out the faint image of what appeared to be someone in white clothing moving around beyond, before a flash of grey and orange blocked his view and pulled the door open, revealing the rested face of Gordon Freeman.

Recognising the suited, one-eyed guardian at once, a broad smile crossed his face. "Ah, Gman," he greeted the man warmly, moving out of his way as he stepped through the doorway, "how're you feeling?"

The Gman smiled back, "quite well, Dr. Freeman. Yourself?"

"Good, good," Gordon answered, his tone bright and chipper. His consolation must have worked wonders last night, the Gman thought as he watched the physicist walk back over to Dr. Taylor.

"I see you've recovered, Ms. Taylor?" The Gman noted calmly as the nurse tended to a sleeping patient on the operating table. She'd been in quite a state yesterday afternoon, hiding herself in the corner of a medical closet cradling a small handgun after a rebel had burst into the infirmary screaming that soldiers were coming. Soon after, three Belgian commandos had made their way inside, killing the rebel as he'd tried to make a run for it and raiding the infirmary.

Not long after, Gordon himself had waltzed on in. A few gunshots and two minutes later he left, leaving two corpses and an injured soldier lying on her floor. Soon after, she'd shakily crawled from the closet, brandishing her pistol and yelling at the soldier propped up against the operating table to get out. All too willing to comply, the soldier had scampered out.

"I'm fine," she replied quietly. "Still a little shaken."

"Perfectly understandable." The Gman smiled cordially.

"I shouldn't be," she scolded herself, "It's not like I haven't coped with anything like this before."

"Don't beat yourself up, Simone," Gordon agreed with the Gman. "Soldiers were tearing up your office."

Dr. Taylor nodded slowly. "I guess." She muttered, wrapping her patient's wound with a thick bandage.

Gordon looked over at the Gman as Simone continued with the unfortunate man. "When are we going to tell the general?" he asked, a hint of anxiety in his tone.

"I actually came to find you for that exact reason," the Gman explained. "I think now would be the opportune time."

"Right," Gordon nodded, looking back at Dr. Taylor. "See you later, Dr. Taylor."

The nurse waved the two off, smiling somewhat weakly as they walked out the door.

"Have you determined a resolution to this whole situation?" the Gman inquired as they headed off.

Gordon smiled. "I think I have, and if it all goes to plan we won't need to use guns."

"Really?"

"Well," Gordon corrected himself, "the end itself isn't to massacre everyone against us. The means, on the other hand, will probably encounter heavy opposition."

"Contention often fortifies its subject's ultimate influence."

"Hopefully that'll be the case here too," Gordon admitted, "especially since I doubt many people get any kick out of this damn rebellion anymore."

"Yourself included?"

"Hell yes," Gordon agreed instantly. "Once upon a time, I was convinced the Combine was evil and that I was doing the right thing. Fighting them was... invigorating. But too many people have died because of this uprising, most of them fighting for the wrong thing, and I'm going to make sure that after today nobody else does."

"You'd make a good ambassador, Dr. Freeman."

"I thought I already was."

"Doubtless you are aware I was meaning as a profession."

"Yeah, well, I've got the future of the human race to think about." Gordon muttered. "Unfortunately."

"You want to die, do you not?"

"Of course I do, Gman. Sure, it wouldn't be a good idea right now, but once this is all over I want to just salute my planet and fall off a cliff."

"When this is all over, I promise you I will take no measures to the prevention of your death."

"That sounds really weird, if you think about it."

"Out of context, perhaps."

"Still."

"I assume you would still appreciate I euthanise you myself?"

"I think I'll take you up on that offer," Gordon agreed. "Though falling to my death would be pretty awesome. Just imagine, it'd have the thrill of parachuting, except you go the whole way."

"Rather morbid conversation this is, don't you agree?"

Gordon laughed. "Absolutely. I doubt many people can just talk about death so casually."

"Consider yourself lucky."

"Trust me, Gman," Gordon replied, thinking about the rollercoaster he'd unwittingly jumped on at Black Mesa, and all the wonderful people he'd been fortunate enough to ride it with while avoiding near death encounters every other day of the trip, "I do."

—

Sitting behind his desk, Dr. Magnusson's grim visage lightened up as Dr. Freeman and the calculated Gman entered his office. Seated comfortably in one of the shabby red couches was both Dr. Breen and the general, and while the latter's veiled countenance was of course unreadable he did greet the two cheerfully when he saw them.

Sitting themselves down in the tattered lounge opposite the general and Breen, the two returned his oblivious salutation.

"Right," Dr. Magnusson addressed the rabble of a council now before him. "Gordon, I trust the Gman explained why we're all here?"

Worried his anxiety would be too obvious if he spoke, Gordon simply offered Magnusson a polite nod in response. "Excellent," Magnusson clasped his hands together energetically. "Gman, what's the situation?"

The Gman smiled perfectly, an impeccable facade of security broadcast especially to the general. "To be honest, Magnusson..." his expression changed suddenly, his face hardening solemnly, "it's actually rather grim... though perhaps not for the reasons you'd think." He looked over at the general, "general, I'm not going to lie, this revelation will most likely cause deep complications within your mind."

The Gman wasn't going to try and soften the blow. He knew it would hit hard, and Gordon knew exactly which gloves he was wearing. "For everything I'm about to tell you, I, and the Fissionist Faction, take full responsibility."

It was obvious from his expression that both Magnusson and Breen were just as much in the dark as the poor Overwatch officer. In one aspect, that was a good thing; it meant that it hadn't become public knowledge yet. "I ask that you consider your actions, and apologise deeply for our own ignorance in advance."

Gordon was pretty sure he knew how the general was feeling. Inside his surgically modified stomach, a strange nausea would be rising. One of fearful anticipation, sick at the thought of something he loved dearly shattering as the Gman spoke. He knew the feeling well, it lingered fresh in his mind from yesterday afternoon.

Subconsciously aware that he was now the centre of attention, the general looked at the others. Even in his sickening anxiety, he could see that others were looking at him in confusion, just as unknowing as he.

But then he saw the melancholy in Gordon's eyes. He knew, and he could tell that he regretted whatever it was profoundly.

"What is it?" he whispered, his already dry mouth like scalding sand.

"The Combine Empire was destroyed in early May by the Fissionist Faction mercenary division."

Gordon knew, even without seeing the general's face, that he was shocked and perhaps a little incredulous. After all, he'd felt the same way. But now, he was anticipating the general's impending fury when his brain threw off denial and realised this was all real.

It was going to come, he knew it.

Gordon also noticed Breen and Magnusson were shocked by the revelation. They too, it seemed, were confused and incredulous about the Gman's statement. Soon, they'd accept it too.

"What are you talking about...?" the general demanded, his voice a whisper of confusion and disbelief, as if he'd been betrayed by his best friend. Maybe he had. "But... the Advisors told us the Phyx brought news from the rest of the Empire... there was an evacuation fleet coming!"

"General, the Phyx betrayed the Combine as soon as they had resurrected Corporal Shephard, in hopes of locating the human resistance and ending the Combine once and for all. They knew the Empire had fallen, and they lied about it to cover the truth."

The general's mirrored gaze held on the Gman, as his mind slowly accepted the truth. "General... we never thought of your kind as good. The Combine Empire acted in a way that threatened the universe's integrity. We were forced to take action against that threat... we were oblivious to the other side of the coin."

The general watched the Gman intently. "You take full responsibility for what you have done?"

The Gman nodded pensively. "I was the integral component in bringing all this to fruition."

The general nodded back, equally as collected. Suddenly, he quickly made to stand up, "then I take responsibility for your death." He whispered, whipping out his holstered Heckler & Koch pistol fluently and aiming it directly at the Gman's head.

As the others realised what was happening, all of them reacted out of reflexive panic. Magnusson and Dr. Breen jumped back in their seats and pressed themselves against them in fear, trying to distance themselves from the obviously enraged officer brandishing his pistol at the Gman.

Then, the slide of the general's pistol flew backwards...

... and the handgun split into dozens of little parts, the disassembled firearm floating just in front of the general's empty hand. Every single part of the weapon had been separated from the other: the slide, the body, the magazine and the individual bullets, the hammer, the trigger assembly, the slide and magazine release, the barrel and even the recoil spring hung motionless in the air.

The general didn't move for a short moment, obviously surprised by this sudden turn of events. Then, his rage overpowered his mind once more and he charged at the Gman through the floating pieces, scattering them all over the room, and swung a vengeful fist at the guardian's chest.

The general felt his fist hit the Gman's body, but there was a strange softness to his flesh, as if he was made of jelly that hardened upon impact. He didn't know how to describe it, but he could feel it so he continued, swinging a right hook at his face. While he could feel the soft flesh of the Gman's cheek it felt alien, and his head didn't even budge. It was like he was punching a concrete statue that felt like some sort of gelatine.

After a few more quick strikes, the general realised the Gman was watching him sadly, as if he sympathised with the absolute burning rage screaming in his mind and knew he was unable to help him. Determined to do _something, _the general snapped his head around and lunged at Gordon, who quickly tried to hop over the armrest of the lumpy couch as the general crashed into him.

But nothing happened. Gordon landed normally, as if nothing had hit him. The general had landed on the ground and was now clambering to his feet, trying to injure Gordon however he could for keeping this from him. He lashed out violently, Gordon trying to dodge before he realised that the blows that _did _hit him didn't actually do anything, as if he hadn't been hit at all. After that, he relaxed, not even bothering to move away from the general's furious attack.

After realising there was no one he could injure and nothing he could do, the general spiralled down into despondence, helpless and pathetic and surrounded by nightmarish spirits that tore into his skull and licked out his mind...

Collapsing on the floor, the general slumped against the bedraggled sofa he'd been sitting in, everyone watching him as if he were a lunatic in an asylum. Dr. Breen and Magnusson were alarmed, eyes wide with consternation at the general's violent outburst. Gordon slowly slipped into his seat, cautious and remorseful that he had played a part in all this, and the Gman sat watching the general with his eyes glistening sympathetically.

The man was at his weakest, in the time of absolute despair after one's aggression in a vain attempt to avenge the shattering of all they'd once held dear. "General," the Gman whispered, "the Prime Advisors would not want vengeance, nor would they desire their most devoted soldiers to be inconsolable. They would want you to continue what you set out to do to fulfil their instructions. They would want _peace_."

"And general," Gordon interjected, hoping that what he'd conceived last night really would be as effective as he'd imagined, "without peace, what do you have? You're the last of the Combine Empire. If you eradicate us, then what happens to your species? Without us, the Combine Empire will disappear into the most obscure regions of the universe's history, a figment of the past whose ignorance led to their own extinction."

The general looked up, his desperation obvious even with his mask on. "So what chance do we have?"

"If we can attain global peace," Gordon explained, "then the Overwatch and the human race can _combine _into a political conglomerate. The human race will restart the Combine Empire, continuing it proud heritage and showing the universe what it was truly out to accomplish."

That was how they'd do it, wasn't it? Gordon could remember oh so vividly that conversation with the Gman as they'd been flying to Aperture Science, mere hours before the world had gone to hell and the Gman had gone back in time to change the past.

"_Man, I wonder how we're going to start again."_

"_Pardon me?" The Gman looked over at him._

"_Reconstructing the human governing bodies," Gordon explained. "Are we just going to return to our countries and restart the United States or the United Kingdom, or the United Nations, even? Or are we just going to form one nation, or none at all?"_

_The Gman paused. He didn't really have an answer that would be of any value. "That, Dr. Freeman," he replied finally, "is something the human race must decide for itself as one, when the time comes to do so."_

He'd wanted an answer. At the time, nothing really suitable had been obvious. But now, having allied with the Combine division following the French general's lead, the answer was clear as crystal, as bright as a summer sun: Join the masses of species conglomerated into the Combine Empire and restart it from Earth.

The Gman looked over questioningly at Gordon. "Are you suggesting mankind submit themselves to the surgical proce—?"

"Hell no," Gordon shook his head quickly. "What would be the point anyway? We breath this air already."

The Gman nodded. It was strange, considering the human race under the banner of the Combine Empire. But then again, what other option did they have? Freeman really was a brilliant young man.

"But... after my generation passes away," the general muttered, still quite upset, "the Combine will pass away as it has always been."

"Some things change," Gordon shrugged. "The universe will know it as the dawn of a new age in the history of the Combine Empire, in the wake of a brief dissolve."

"But with only the human race, it won't really be the Combine Empire, will it? After all, before the Shu'ulathoi formed a conglomerate state with all the modified species that had combined with them their nation was known as the Imperium of Shu'ulatia."

Gordon nodded, having been told before the only pure 'Combine' were the Advisors, and everyone else had been 'destroyed and consumed' according to the Gman.

_The Combine Advisors are the founders of this loathsome species. Everyone else... is a victim._

Apparently, that little bit of speculation was in need of revision.

"The human race will branch out," Gordon answered. "We'll join with the other species of the universe... surely they've learnt of the Combine Empire's dissolution by now, and we'll be able to complete what you set out to achieve."

The general nodded slowly. "I see." Looking down at the ground, he suddenly became aware he was on the floor. Quietly, he pulled himself back into his seat. "Freeman, for someone I'd heard all my life was the primary threat to the security of this colony... you're a bloody good diplomat."

Gordon smiled weakly. "The colonel told me something like that yesterday... before he tried to kill me."

The general chuckled softly. "Don't worry, I've got no intentions of doing that anymore. Besides, you said it yourself, what good would it do? The Combine isn't coming back unless you guys start it again."

Leaning forward in his chair, a light suddenly appeared at the end of the tunnel in Gordon's mind's eye. "Do you think we'll be able to end all this fighting if everyone realises this is our ultimatum?"

The general leaned back in his seat, "apart from a few psychos... absolutely. Hell, I just wanted to kill you guys until you reminded me that I'd be no better off."

"Worse, even." The Gman added.

"Gordon," the general watched the physicist's calculated visage closely, "you need to show everyone the Combine has no hope if they wipe you guys out. Right now, they're all expecting a big old evac fleet to come around in June next year. Since we know that's not going to happen, it's obvious that it's only through the human race that our nation can live on after we die out. To everyone else, mankind doesn't mean shit so long as our ride home _does_."

Gordon nodded. "I expected the Combine would see things my way."

"They will... you just gotta make sure they know the human race will continue the Combine Empire _before _you tell them it doesn't exist anymore. Otherwise everyone, and I mean _everyone, _is going to come down on you and boil you alive, suit and all."

"But how are we going to broadcast the message?" Gordon inquired.

The general leaned back in his seat. "Hmm... the Breencast method would be the obvious choice."

"I was thinking that too," Gordon admitted, "I was more thinking about _where _we're going to broadcast _from_."

Resting his chin on his gloved palm, the general droned a quiet 'hmm'. "The Palace of Nations is a no-go; doubtless the place is still swarming with freed Advisors."

"We can't do it here," Gordon added. "Our Citadel... kinda blew up last year."

"How about France, my country?" the general suggested. "I mean, as one of the highest-ranking officers in the Overwatch I've got easy access to the Citadel. We can broadcast from there."

"It may have been invaded," the Gman reminded the general. "The Belgian Overwatch may not have taken kindly to what they see as your own insurgency."

"Then we'll get a chance to liberate it," the general answered. "I staged the coup, now you help me take back my country and we bring peace to the world together."

"Sounds reasonable." Gordon agreed.

"Freeman," Magnusson interrupted the little brainstorm, "we've only got _one _helicopter. Now how are we going to mobilise an army to France?"

"Whoever said we were taking an army?" Gordon asked smugly.

"Actually, Dr. Freeman," the general began, "that would be a good idea. Going guerrilla wouldn't be a wise tactic, especially considering any hostile presence will probably belong to an invading force the size of a field army."

"Well, Magnusson's right," Gordon shrugged, "we've only got Helix One. How are we going to get a big enough to keep the enemy at bay while we deal with saving the world?"

Beside Gordon, the Gman smiled deviously. "I believe the Combine already have transportation for something like this in place."

The general frowned. "We've never needed to deploy large-scale units intercontinentally."

"That is irrelevant; the _potential _to do so is what matters here." The Gman replied calmly. Looking around the room in a manner one might have described as melodramatic, he clasped his elegant fingers together. "Combine rail transport fits the bill perfectly, no?"

The general nodded, chuckling quietly under his breath. "Smart man," he agreed. "Yes, that would be perfect! If we were able to find a Razor Train here in Romania, we would be able to take the entire force here at White Forest to France."

"By train?" Gordon demanded. "We'll get there at midnight!"

"Razor Trains travel much faster than your conventional locomotives," the general explained. "Usually reaching around a hundred and eighty kilometres an hour."

"Hmm..." Gordon considered it. "We'll still get there pretty late into the evening."

"We've got no other option," Dr. Magnusson interjected. "I say we go with it."

"The train will go straight to the Citadel," the general added, "providing we take it on the right track."

The Gman smiled. "Leave that to me."

**9:46 AM, Romanian countryside**

It was somewhat easy to describe where White Forest was, if you had a map. A little bit further than a hundred kilometres from the capital city of Bucharest, about the same distance from the coastal city of Constanta — the pre-Combine name of City 17 — and in between Calarasi and Slobozia, if someone with a Romanian map asked you where it was you could just draw a little diamond connecting all four of those cities and point right in the middle.

Fortunately for the rebels living there, it was also relatively close to a long straight railway stretching between Bucharest and Constanta. After the Gman had departed to search for a Razor Train and enough carriages to transport the five hundred or so rebels, Vortigaunts and a giant robotic dog to France, the insurgents had gathered their weapons and some provisions and headed off.

An hour and a half later, the battalion sized congregation was gathered on a beautiful grassy hill overlooking the railway. Not knowing when the Gman would arrive, Gordon sat among the amiably chatting masses, answering some of the more enthusiastic ones' questions.

The questions were pretty easy to answer: Were you really in the test chamber when the Resonance Cascade happened, did you have to fight the military _and _aliens from Xen, were you seriously in stasis those twenty years we were here waiting for the salvation Eli had promised would come, things like that.

Most of those questions surprised Gordon. He'd thought things like that had been accepted truth, but apparently people still saw him and his actions in a legendary light, unable to discern history from whispered myths they'd heard before his return. It was like he was King Arthur, a mythical hero whose past, according to the populace, was a mix of fact and fiction.

Most things he heard were pretty damn accurate, to be honest. He'd asked where they'd learnt all of this, doubting the Gman had told them, and they explained the Vortigaunts had told them, after he'd freed them from the Nihilanth's iron grasp.

What he also learnt was that his return had been expected. He remembered hearing little things suggesting this in the first days after his return last year, especially from Alyx over the radio as he'd tried to get to Black Mesa East and Nova Prospekt. Apparently, Eli had discovered the Gman had put him in stasis — perhaps the Vortigaunts had witnessed this and Eli had made the connection between the man they spoke of and the one who brought Alyx and the body of his wife to him as he escaped Black Mesa — and proclaimed his return in the two decades it took.

Thinking back on those early days of October last year, Gordon realised that everything fitted together perfectly. Apparently, even the Gman's alteration of the past had had minimal impact on his own, other than the stuff leading up to his death and resurrection.

Time certainly was a strange thing. Well, maybe it wasn't, they just didn't know enough about it yet.

Another thing Gordon noticed was that everyone was _smiling. _Vivid memories of people running across rooftops and through the streets as they engaged the Combine in brutal urban warfare were filled with the grim faces of his fellow man, battered and weary. Now, that asperity was gone, replaced with nonchalance and cheeriness lighting up the myriad faces of the rebels sitting on that lush green hill.

Gordon smiled himself. If there was anything on this Earth to live for after all this was over, it would be the smiles on those peoples' faces. That was reward enough, to see brilliant gladness after two decades of dejection and hopelessness had plagued them.

And if only he could share it with those closest to him...

Somewhere far in the distance to the right of the assembly, a deep horn blared like a mournful goat. Every head turned to see the source, numerous people climbing to their feet and pointing, yelling things that Gordon couldn't hear from where he was.

It was the Gman, all right. Blaring the horn again, the loud rattling of the train's wheels became audible, increasing in volume as the train came ever nearer. Finally, the grinding of brakes screamed out and the train slowly came to a stop, half the multitude already at the foot of the hill and waiting eagerly to get in.

After this, it would be over. All the fighting would end, and they wouldn't live their lives fearing it might be the last. This was the final battle, the test to prove their determination for peace. All they had to do was hold out against the enemy until Freeman showed the world that they had no choice but to make peace.

Among the hundreds of men running down the hill, Gordon watched as the great metal carriages were pulled open and filled with energetic soldiers, eager to finish the fight. Smiling at their amazing resolution, he watched as the Gman poked his head out from the Razor Train's cabin and waved at him.

As he reached the foot of the hill, Gordon looked down the length of the train, the carriages stretching out far behind the powerfully utilitarian Combine locomotive. "How many carriages did you find?"

"Twelve," the Gman answered with a calm smile, "with room enough for forty or so seated soldiers per carriage."

"Four hundred and eighty seats, then..." Gordon scratched his chin. "Well, people should be alright to sit on the floor, won't they?"

"I highly doubt it would be any less comfortable."

Gordon smiled. "Is there room in there?"

The Gman looked back inside the cabin. "There's only one seat, I'm afraid. Don't worry, I saw inside the carriages. They're rather nice, to be honest."

Nodding slowly, Gordon took another look down the train's length. "Yeah... only experience I've had inside one of these trains was when Alyx and I were getting out of the city. We got in a Stalker train... and it crashed."

"That wouldn't have been pleasant, I'd imagine."

"It wasn't." Gordon agreed, eerie screams echoing in the back of his mind as he remembered the starved cybernetic beasts gnashing their toothless gums at him, their faces skewered hideously in the shadows.

"It'd be much nicer than staying in here with me." The Gman added. "Besides, you've got the general and the other rebels for company."

"Won't you need any?"

The Gman smiled, conveying a sad and lonely smile. "I once watched this planet alone for twenty years. Then I went back and had to watch the last six all over again. Company is by no means a necessity for me... though I do enjoy the time I have with the human race." He gazed off into the distance, his eyes clouded like an old man recalling a fond past. "Your species is remarkably similar to our own; adjusting to this body was no difficult task."

Gordon frowned. "This isn't your original body?"

"Well, most of the dissimilarities are extremely subtle, but I'm sure you've noticed the other Members' conspicuous aqua _glow, _haven't you?"

Gordon smiled. "Yeah, you're right."

The general walked up to the locomotive from behind Gordon, "are we going to leave soon?"

The Gman nodded, "we'll depart shortly." He looked down at Gordon. "You'd better get on."

Nodding, Gordon looked over at the general. "Alright, I'm coming."

The general waved, heading back to his carriage. Gordon looked back at the Gman. "Hope the trip doesn't get too boring."

"Likewise, Dr. Freeman." The Gman smiled.

Gordon waved himself, "see you later," before he headed off after the general.

After watching Gordon climb into one of the carriages the Gman pulled his head back inside the cabin, wrenching the thick metal hatch closed again and turning back to face the plethora of glowing blue controls on the console before him, a dreary azure light lighting up the claustrophobic space. Pressing a few buttons, the train jerked slightly before it started moving, slowly at first before it began gaining speed as its powerful engines warmed up once more and pushed it onwards. Soon, it was going at a phenomenal speed, streaking across the Romanian countryside like a giant steel snake.

As Gordon sat in the reasonably comfortable padded seats of the second carriage, the lights in the roof lighting up the inside of the otherwise ominous metal container on wheels, a thought came to mind: he'd arrived in this dystopian regime on a train, in early October the year before.

Thirteen months later, he'd started a rebellion, destroyed the invaders' connection with the rest of their empire, launched a rocket at their homeworld, blown up a malign sentient AI, had the past altered to give him a second chance, defended their main base from a huge enemy force, been killed and resurrected three days ago, killed a high ranking officer, found out the enemy _wasn't _actually evil, joined a general that had usurped the corrupt regime, run away from the soldiers still loyal to the corrupt leaders, defended their main base again and found out that the enemy's nation had been destroyed a few months before he'd been risen to life.

After everything he'd achieved in the three or so weeks he'd been alive on Earth in October 2021 and November 2022, he was once again on a train. But this time, it wasn't to start something. It was to _end _something.

And end it he would.

* * *

**Did you really expect my guess to be right? **

**As you can see, this isn't the end. I decided adding the huge climactic battle on top of this (which is already +5000 words) would just be too long. So, surprise surprise, this isn't the last chapter. But the next one is, I promise.  
**


	35. Thirty Four: Incontrovertibility Pt One

**-=Chapter Thirty Four: Incontrovertibility Part One=-**

**Invalides, Paris, France 9:14 PM (CEST)**

It seemed their estimations had been correct: France was most certainly under attack.

As one of the few human capital cities that the Combine had chosen to set up their jurisdiction in, Paris had been hit by two divisions of the Belgian Overwatch. A regiment worth of infantry had been deployed especially to the 7th arrondissement, which had been renamed and categorised as the individual French urban centre City 7, numbered along with the other twenty administrative districts in Paris.

The significance of the Combine City was that it was location of the country's Citadel. Instead of demolishing dozens of blocks of urban housing, the Combine had simply excavated the conveniently sized Champ de Mars and erected the towering behemoth of metal there.

Inadvertently, the Combine had also made a very imposing statement about their superiority over mankind by doing this: the _Tour Eiffel, _known internationally as the Eiffel Tower, was located at the north-western end of the hollowed out park.

Now, the iconic construct that had long ago been the tallest building on Earth was completely overshadowed by the Citadel, so much so that the iron tower now looked like an ant standing up against a giant.

While the Citadel towered impressively above the rest of the city, the situation in the streets had been reduced to quite the opposite. The Belgian task force had struck hard and fast, and the Overwatch defenders were desperately trying to hold them off. Civilian militia had joined their ranks but the invaders still had the upper hand with a large field base in the Esplanade des Invalides brimming with Striders, Hunters and numerous armoured personnel carriers just waiting to be unleashed on the slowly weakening French. While the Citadel equipped the nation with a more than adequate supply of its own mechanised cavalry and other military vehicles, most of them had been deployed long ago to the rest of the country and the number remaining presented no competition to the concentrated might of the Belgian force.

The situation was dire. At least, it was until Gordon Freeman and his rebel entourage arrived.

A relatively inconspicuous Razor Train had chugged noisily along the outskirts of the city, weaving along the railway as it headed for the RER station Invalides. Its headlights glowing brightly in the darkness of the early night, it had finally come to a stop after so many hours of travel from south-eastern Romania at the underground Line 8 platform.

"_All passengers are required to please disembark here," _the Gman's welcome voice crackled over the train's speakers. "_The Belgian force in the city is focused in the field opposite this station. Dr. Freeman and the general are to remain onboard until arrival at the Citadel."_

Not knowing exactly _why _there was an intercom on the train, Gordon considered the possibilities as he watched the carriage's doors being pulled open to reveal the unlit derelict platform beyond. He assumed it had once been used for the same purpose by the Overwatch Voice, to broadcast updates exclusively related to the train itself rather than to individual soldiers via their irremovable helmets.

Rebels shuffled through the doorway into the gloom outside, loading automatic rifles and cocking shotguns with various degrees of enthusiasm. As the last of the people climbed off the train, two men turned back and waved at Gordon and the general before they pulled the heavy double doors shut behind them. In the moments before the doors closed with a dull clang, Gordon caught a glimpse of a dented metal behemoth charging up one of the silhouetted flights of stairs.

Gordon felt a little guilty about Dog being here. Sure, he'd be a valuable asset to the rebels, but how could he forgive himself if the lovable automaton was destroyed tonight? While the canine golem was in about the same situation as him, without any real purpose to live other than to fulfil that he was inclined to, Gordon doubted Dog wanted to die as he did. Then again, he had been incredibly eager to come, so what right did Gordon have to stop him? If he was killed, surely meeting his end fighting for freedom was one of the best ways to go out?

The only problem was, Gordon doubted there was anything for him beyond the grave...

As the train started up again, Gordon looked over at the general. His worries had caused a question to surface in his mind. "If we're here to make peace, then why did we need to bring troops with us?" he asked. "I mean, won't the attack stop after we broadcast and the Belgians realised they've got no choice?"

Clasping his hands together, the general looked over at Gordon. "Freeman, things very rarely go exactly as planned. This case is no different. Even after we get inside the Citadel and broadcast, there's no guarantee that the Belgian force here will receive the message."

"Why not?"

"How many Breencast screens were intact after the Uprising you started last year in City 17?"

Gordon thought about it for a moment. He could only recall seeing a few propaganda televisions and one screen, but it had been pulled down by a group of rebels soon after he'd spotted it. "That's different," Gordon objected, "people pulled them down because we were rebelling against the Combine."

"That's irrelevant," the general answered. "Any number of things could affect the soldiers down here receiving the message. The power might've been cut, some of the screens may have been damaged, hell, something as simple as soldiers not being nearby a screen or not even paying attention."

Gordon frowned suddenly. "If the power's been cut, then what are we going to do?"

"We still broadcast, obviously."

"No, _how _do we broadcast if there's no power?"

Even with the glazed lenses over his eyes Gordon could tell the general was staring at him. "You're not being serious, are you?" the general stifled a hearty chuckle. "Gordon, do you honestly think something as big as a _Citadel _is plugged into your primitive little electrical mainframe? Geez, I heard you went _inside _the damn core last year, don't tell me you didn't know they're autonomous from your infrastructure?"

Gordon bowed his head, somewhat embarrassed. "Sorry... wasn't thinking about that."

The general allowed himself a quiet laugh. "You nervous, Freeman?"

"A little." Gordon admitted, staring at the floor.

"We've got the easy job," the general assured him. "Ride into the Citadel, broadcast our message and hope the soldiers on the ground get it. We just have to hope none of the Belgians get in before we do."

Gordon nodded slowly. "I know... I just can't believe it's going to be that easy."

"This isn't some epic story, Freeman," the general reminded him, "it's real life. Most of the time things don't end with a breathtaking climax. You should be thankful we probably won't have to fight our way in."

"Yeah... you're right." Gordon agreed. "I don't know, it's just I've wanted to end all of this for so long, and now the opportunity is here and it's so simple."

"Did you want it to be complicated?"

"No..."

"So be thankful it isn't."

The two sat in silence for a few moments after that. Gordon was about to say something, but he never got the chance because a deafening explosion suddenly filled his ears with strident chaos from directly outside, causing their carriage to let out an earsplitting shriek as it flipped on its side crashing around violently and rolling over multiple times before skidding to a halt some way away from the rest of the train.

Then there was silence.

Lying still, Gordon tried to look around. The ceiling lights were out; either they'd shattered or the locomotive at the front had supplied power to the railcars. He couldn't see anything in the darkness, and the night wasn't providing any light through the slits at the bottom of the large doorframe in the side of the carriage either — wherever the side _was _now.

He felt something warm up at his hairline that he guessed was blood, so he slowly and blindly reached up and tried to touch it. His gloved fingers pressed against the fluid and he rubbed his numb fingers together weakly. Unable to see it, Gordon decided it couldn't really be anything else.

He tried to figure out what had happened. The explosion gave some inclination, it meant they'd been attacked. Well, that was just dandy, wasn't it? He didn't know for certain, but he would bet any money soldiers were coming to investigate and search the wreck.

The thought of soldiers coming brought up another question: where was the general? Reaching out and patting all around him, Gordon tried to find the officer in the dark. Not being able to see led his subconscious mind to check if his glasses were still on even though it wouldn't help him either way. Wriggling his nose as he felt around, he felt his large framed spectacles jiggle on his head. Good, they were still on.

Deciding he should probably try and do something about the darkness, Gordon stretched his arms and legs slowly, groaning monotonously as he shook out his arms. Sitting up in the darkness, he flicke don the flashlight integrated into his suit, getting up slowly and looking around. Spotting the general's leg in the torch's beam, he looked down and saw him lying on top of one of the chairs they'd been sitting on. The chairs that had been lining the back wall were now the floor, and that meant the doors were now in the roof. Looking up, his assumption was confirmed: the doors were indeed in the roof.

Looking back down something blinked at him in the light of his torch, and upon examination Gordon found it was his pulse rifle, apparently having been thrown around in the pandemonium. Not worrying about it for the time being, Gordon knelt down beside the general and tried to shake him awake. Eventually, a garbled groan escaped the officer's filtered mouth and his body shifted. "General, get up," Gordon insisted, shaking him a little more. "Someone attacked the train, we need to get out."

Finally, the general sat up, shaking his head wearily. "Shit, what happened?"

"Someone attacked the train," Gordon repeated, turning on his knees to his pulse rifle and scooping it up.

Groaning, the general got to his feet. "Why the hell did I jinx it?" he muttered angrily, scowling behind his mask.

"You didn't jinx it, general," Gordon answered, reaching up to the roof and trying to slide the heavy doors open. "You just said everything would be simple and it wasn't. Shit happens, I guess."

"You're telling me," the general grumbled, furiously pulling his rifle from around his shoulders as Gordon swung the doors open, moonlight flooding in from outside as if he'd just opened a sunroof. Tossing his rifle up onto what had once been the carriage's wall, Gordon grabbed onto the doorframe and tried to lift himself up. Slowly, amid reasonably heavy pants, he managed. On the other side, the general had hoisted himself up with ease and had been watching his physicist comrade's endeavour. "What was _that_, Freeman?" he asked humorously, sliding onto the ground.

"Shut up," Gordon muttered dryly as he switched off his flashlight, flicking the safety latch off his rifle and wrenching back the charging handle. From up on the railcar, he surveyed the darkened surroundings cautiously. Before them other blandly utilitarian carriages lay in the grass, the faint glow of the moonlit night adding to the ominous atmosphere of devastation. Looking behind them, Gordon suddenly realised their carriage was resting precariously close to the side of the wharf and had almost slid into the river Siene. A few ripples glistening on the surface showed him others hadn't been as lucky. Somewhere far in the distance, the hollow cracks of gunfire resonated off the concrete walls of the buildings lining the many streets.

Focusing on their situation, Gordon slid off the railcar and walked slowly over to the closest carriage as it lay inert among its derailed brethren. Pressing himself up against the chassis of the overturned railcar, Gordon slipped over to the edge of the carriage and peered around the corner, straining to make out other things nearby in the weak moonlight. He could always have kept his flashlight on, but why risk alerting whoever might be coming for them to their presence?

Glancing over at another flipped railcar across from him, Gordon ducked low and snuck over to it, the general following quietly behind him. So far so good.

Peeking around the corner, Gordon tried to make out any shadowy blobs moving in the distance. Unable to see anything, he pulled his head back in and faced the general. "I can't see anyone coming," he explained, watching the general's lazuline eyepieces glistening in the moonlight, "but keep an eye out."

"What's the plan?" the general whispered back, lightly drumming his fingers on the metallic handguard of his pulse rifle.

"We need to find the Gman," Gordon answered, heading over to the other side of the upturned railcar. "Hopefully he'll still be close to the train."

From behind Gordon, the general nodded. "Good idea."  
Slowly, Gordon slipped around the corner of the carriage, his rifle at the ready. Not ten metres from him was the Razor Train's overturned locomotive, faint smoke that looked a little like steam pouring out from the bottom. Quickly, Gordon moved over to the giant hunk of metal, stopping halfway as he noticed the cabin door had been ripped clean off its hinges. Slightly panicked, Gordon rushed over to the flipped locomotive, climbing up onto its side and gazing into the dark cabin. As he'd expected, the Gman wasn't inside.

Cursing loudly, he slid back down off the train's side as the general caught up with him. "He's gone, hasn't he?" the senior officer asked grimly. Gordon nodded, his brow furrowed dismally. "Where could he have gone?"

"Probably off to help the others," the general suggested, just as unsure as his physicist comrade.

"Why would he do that?" Gordon asked furiously, wishing he could call out to the elusive guardian without drawing a dozen Overwatch squads down on their asses. "Why didn't he co—"

"There's no need for such agitation, Dr. Freeman." The Gman insisted placidly from behind the frustrated scientist. Spinning, Gordon frowned at the Gman. "Where did you go?"

"I was merely searching for you among the wreckage," he explained matter-of-factly. "As I was scouring the debris, I heard your voices over here."

Gordon sighed wearily. "Sorry about that..."

The general watched Gordon curiously. "Freeman, I've just noticed you haven't seemed yourself ever since early this morning. What's going on?"

Gordon shook his head. "Nothing..." he answered quietly, pursing his lips. "Well... it's just I've had it with killing all these people."

The general slapped him comfortingly on the back, casually brushing away any solemnity as if it didn't matter, "hey, we're on the final stretch," he reminded Gordon. "Just remember that if you screw this shit up, it's all over. Don't let your ethics get in the way, these are the real deal mean ass Combine, the people you thought all of us were last year."

Nodding, Gordon looked up and down the side of his rife. "What the hell, I've already done enough to condemn me to hell. Hopefully I don't get transferred there on my way back to Alyx."

"You won't." The Gman answered simply. And, knowing the Gman, Gordon believed him.

Suddenly, the group heard something akin to thick rubber squealing against bitumen explode into the relatively quiet night. Beyond the Razor Train, its derailed cars and the railway not far past it an APC came rocketing out from a side street into the main one that formed the T-intersection opposite the three insurgents. The bulky vehicle showing no sign of stopping, Gordon let out a deep yelp of alarm as he threw himself behind the locomotive he'd just searched. As the general also scrambled for cover while heavy turret gunfire rumbled like thunder and threw up dark chunks of dirt all over the place, the Gman simply looked in slight amusement at the oncoming personnel carrier and stood his ground.

For whatever reason, the enthusiastic occupants of the APC didn't think stopping would be in any way beneficial so they simply ploughed on toward the Gman. After the armoured front of the vehicle had smashed violently into the Gman and crumpled inwards to the glorious backing of tearing metal and shattering glass, the passengers' enthusiasm vanished when they realised not only had shit just gotten serious but their driver had become a glass shard pincushion.

Pulling himself from the perfectly moulded niche his impossibly dense body had just made in the APC's thick front, the Gman quickly placed his hands on the two sides that hadn't been heavily dented and threw his hands into the air, carrying the giant vehicle with him as he swung his hands up above his head and back down behind him, letting go of the personnel carrier at the furthest point of his backward windmill. With a deafening crash, the entire frame of the upturned APC flattened against the ground, its occupants pulped bloodily in an instant.

Turning to Gordon and the general, the Gman smiled. "An eye for an eye," he explained vaguely as a dark puddle leaked from the crumpled mess of metal. Noticing Gordon's confusion and assuming the general shared his thoughts, he elaborated, "they destroyed our train."

"They fired the rocket at us?" Gordon asked sceptically.

"Unfortunately," the Gman affirmed solemnly. "I'd been hoping you could end this quickly."

Gordon rubbed his forehead, once again conscious of the giant weight hanging on his shoulders. "Should we follow the railway? That'll get us into the Citadel, shouldn't it?"

"It will," the general agreed, "but the railway's out in the open and it'd be quicker to cut through the streets."

Gordon nodded, looking up at the Gman. "Alright. You coming with us?"

Smiling, the Gman rubbed his hands together. "I don't see why not. Hopefully my assistance won't be necessary, though."

"Always good to have backup, isn't it?"

"Absolutely."

Pursing his lips with a resolved determination, Gordon hoisted his rifle and stared up at the giant image of the soaring Citadel a few blocks away. "Then let's do it."

**Esplanade des Invalides, France, 9:22 PM**

The invading force had set up a large perimeter around the public promenade Esplanade des Invalides, inside which they had organised a temporary field base housing tonnes upon tonnes of ammunition, dormant Striders and Hunters and hundreds of infantrymen organising themselves for a final strike against the enemy Citadel. After all, possession of the country's central administrative point would most surely end any French opposition within the state's borders. Since the four French Advisors had departed the Citadel long ago to discuss matters with the others from across the globe in the Palace of Nations conference room — where they had been imprisoned during the general's coup — and the general himself was hiding fearfully in Romania, the French had no one in authority left in their country. It was a simple matter of taking control of the administrative centre of the country and demanding the French stand down.

With this amassment of Overwatch resources lit up by hundreds of military floodlights having been hurriedly erected earlier that night, the entire esplanade was shining brightly like a beacon to the rest of the arrondissement, as if to proclaim the Belgians' conquest of France by the stockpile illuminated by these lights was imminent.

Conquest would be relatively simple.

The only issue with the plan was that nobody had expected the French general and the entourage of vicious human rebels led by Dr. Freeman and his Fissionist companion to turn up as they were preparing themselves. Unfortunately for the Belgians, the Esplanade de Invalides was across the road from the RER station the Gman had stopped at to let the hundreds of determined men, women and Vortigaunts strike at the enemy where they were the most concentrated.

Losses were expected, but it had since become common knowledge that Freeman himself had no desire to remain on Earth after securing peace because there really _was_ a better world waiting for them beyond death. If there was some sort of paradise waiting for them, then why not pass through whatever gates it had fighting for freedom?

When the huge rebel force exploded from the underground station, charging south toward the northern perimeter like a swarm of furious wasps and opening fire on the soldiers calmly guarding it, it suddenly became clear that the Belgians victory might not actually be that decisive.

Having made his way to the front of the rebel force, Dog bore down at one of the metal-lattice guard towers that had been erected across the street, moving ahead of the crows as he threw himself at the tower's foundation with an electronic whine that sounded for all the world like a bloodthirsty war cry.

As gunfire rained down all around his powerful metal body Dog slammed straight into the tower's frame, sending a resounding vibration through the latticework as it bent back somewhat, its rear supports digging deeper into the relatively soft dirt as Dog whined again and began to climb up the framework.

Showing more resemblance to a mechanical gorilla than a domesticated dog, he clambered into the roofed box at the top and swung a gigantic fist at the horrified soldier trying to shoot him down, the fist bursting through the man's lower ribcage and spraying blood out all over Dog's metal knuckles. Pulling his fist back and shoving the bleeding corpse off the back parapet, he then swung himself onto the outside on one of the roof supports and pulled with all his might, the tower eventually giving in and falling over backwards with the low groan of complaining metal.

Just before he hit the ground, Dog dived off and rolled along the grass as the guard tower crashed down behind him and the rebels poured into the esplanade unoppressed, their brutal gunfire having taken out the rest of the guards just before.

Then, with men, women and Vortigaunts swarming all around him Dog turned around and picked up the guard tower, breaking it in half and hoisting it above his head triumphantly, running around the mass of rebels on his hind legs and throwing the lattice debris at one of the nearby tarpaulin-covered ammo dumps. The large metal frame came crashing down on top of the ammo dump, the supports collapsing under its weight and flattening the crates of weaponry under it and the waterproof canvas providing its roof.

Suddenly, the enemy came alive. From all over the park towering Striders jerked mechanically to life, their bulbous frames shaking as their slender arachnid-esque legs turned them toward the oncoming insurgent force. At their feet, squealing Hunters pounded the grass, rushing like tripedal stallions at their attackers. Among the mechanised army of Synths units of infantry armed themselves and marched northward, eyes set dead ahead as a threatening wrenching sound echoed out from their midst as they pulled back the charging handles of their rifles in unison, smacking them back in place and hoisting their rifles like some kind of synchronised automaton army.

Undeterred by the enemy's sudden explosion of activity, the rebels pushed on, their gunfire tearing through the air and arcs of electricity crackling and snapping like violent power lines. Weaving between whatever temporary ammo dumps or bivouacs had been set up in the sprawling park, the Resistance fought desperately against the equally resolute enemy.

Dog was unequivocally the most vicious fighter on the battlefield: any Overwatch trooper in his way was swatted aside like an annoying fly, accompanied by garbled yells and the hard thumping of metal on padded flesh. The targets he was really after were the equally fast Hunters, screaming shrilly as their glossy black legs powered them across the promenade toward the insurgents opposite them. As Dog thundered toward one on all fours, whirring dauntingly at the oncoming Hunter as it reared its dark oblong head and spat glowing flechettes at the robot canine. With the fluency of a lean martial artist Dog threw himself forward and rolled under the spear-like projectiles, following through with a quick pounce as he came out of the roll and latching onto the Hunter's dull grey head. His momentum carrying him forward Dog overbalanced the screeching Synth and sent it crashing to the ground, bringing his giant blood splattered fist back and smashing the Hunter's oddly shaped head to a useless dented pulp, sticky grey fluid spraying out from various cracks in the deformed block of its metal skull.

As he scampered away from the crumpled fountain of synthetic blood, Dog's stared up at the giant bulbous bodies of multiple Striders towering in the distance, one of them issuing forth a deep moan like that of a whale. His scanner eye adjusting in size as it watched the Striders' underslung turrets swinging threateningly as their owners stumbled heavily toward his rebel comrades, Dog whooped his own deep call and charged at the cybernetic beasts looming in the near distance.

In his electronic mind, Dog concluded there shouldn't logically be any reason why he couldn't take down the three of them. After all, he'd taken down one before by removing its vat-grown encephalon and he calculated the other two would be powerless to stop him, as their onboard weapons systems had no way of directing up at an angle steep enough to hit him. Taking everything into account, Dog saw no reason to turn back and consequently he did no such thing.

As the Striders thumped unceremoniously toward the rebel force, their turrets erupting in brilliantly celestial azure light, Dog dived at the closest Strider's leg and began pulling himself up the relatively thin mechanical limb.

He had a job to do.

—

Around five or six blocks west of the Esplanade des Invalides down Avenue Rapp, a sharp hiss of agony whished from the gritted teeth of an orange clad physicist pressed up against the back of a rusted red Peugeot 106. Staring down at his shaking body, he ground his teeth furiously in a futile attempt to weaken the intensity of the bleeding wound, his hands pressing against his stomach.

Even with the morphine working its magic the bullet was burning like hell, seeing as it had crashed into his abdomen near his stomach where only a thick layer of leather protected his otherwise bullet-susceptible flesh. Had the bullet hit his metal armour instead, the only effect it would have had would've been blunt force trauma.

Gunfire roared loudly from just behind him, the general having clambered into the Peugeot through the recently shattered rear windscreen and opened fire on the enemy soldiers further down the street.

Gordon noticed two dirty dress shoes step over to beside his shaking legs, and he looked up slowly at the suited Gman. "Hit you in the stomach?" he asked calmly. His teeth gritted, Gordon nodded frantically. "That's strange..." the Gman mused curiously. "I would've imagined your suit would provide adequate resistance."

"No armour there," Gordon grunted.

"Surely you've been hit in places with equivalent protection without such dire consequences before?" The Gman inquired rhetorically. Seeing Gordon's expression, he knelt down. "Never mind; please move your hands."

Slowly, Gordon's bloodied gloves lowered, revealing the stained leather beneath. Nodding to himself, the Gman looked around and quickly scooped up a crumpled newspaper blowing against the wall to his right. Scrunching up the paper and pressing it against Gordon's wound with his left hand, he hovered the index finger of his right over the scrunched up ball and lifted it in place, before removing the bloody paper and casually throwing it aside. Gordon watched in surprise as a flattened 9mm slug covered in little globules of red bounced out as the newspaper opened up in the gentle breeze. Looking down at his stomach, he noticed his suit had stitched itself up immaculately, as if nothing had torn it.

"Not to ring my own bell, but I'd say I make a fantastic medic." the Gman smiled at the stunned scientist before him. Smiling back, Gordon got back to his feet, reloading his rifle, "thanks, Gman."

"Hey, Gman!" the general called from the front seat of the battered Peugeot, ducking down behind the dashboard as he reloaded his rifle. "Think we should drive the rest of the way?"

Gordon looked the car over sceptically. "Could we even get it _started_?"

"The Gman could get it running, couldn't he?" the general answered, returning fire at the soldiers far down the long street as numerous slugs ricocheted off the car's bonnet.

"Does it have fuel?"

Without waiting for an answer the Gman walked over to the side of the vehicle, pulling open the fuel cap and poking his hand inside the pipe. After a few moments of being stared at by Gordon and the general — who had heard the cap pop open — he withdrew his hand, closed the cap and pulled the left-hand passenger door open. "It does now," he answered finally, closing the door behind him.

Incredulous, Gordon looked at the fuel cap. "Did you just...?"

"Fill it up?" the Gman asked from inside the beaten up old car. "Yes, I did, now get in."

Raising his eyebrows but not really bothered enough to ask, Gordon moved over to the other passenger door and pulled it open. The Gman looked up at him curiously from his side. "I thought you were driving?"

"Huh? I thought the general...?" Gordon closed the door and looked into the general's seat on the left hand side, noticing the steering wheel was on the right. "Oh, it's European," he muttered, pulling the oddly positioned driver door open and sliding into the seat. He turned around and looked at the Gman as the general continued firing at the enemy. "How are you going to start it?"

The engine chugged abruptly, before roaring to life with unusual ferocity for a car left without maintenance for two decades. "Right," Gordon grunted, turning back around and looking through the shattered windscreen. "Everyone strapped in?"

"Just hurry up and drive, Freeman!" the general snapped, slotting three new pill-shaped capsules into his pulse rifle. Evidently he wasn't strapped in. Allowing himself a quiet chuckle, Gordon floored the accelerator.

The old car took off like a rocket, speeding down the debris littered street like a supersonic bullet. It wasn't as fast as some of the other cars he'd driven in his time in this dystopian world — the old Dodge Charger had been bliss to pilot — but compared to all the walking they'd done for the past half hour it was a welcomingly fast change. Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon saw the general's hand slide down his rifle and thumb the alternate fire, the weapon humming shrilly in his hands before it bucked violently, a brilliant ball of glowing energy exploding like a translucent bubble of power from the lower muzzle.

What happened next was rather strange. The ball was moving at a velocity only slightly higher to that of their bashed up Peugeot, thus it didn't actually gain much distance before it crashed through the group of Belgian soldiers about three quarters of the way down the street. When it did, however, the result was something new for Gordon and the others: as always, the dark energy disintegrated the soldiers it hit, their bodies crackling gently as they floated into the air — now comprised of negative mass. But seeing as it had only been a mere metre from the front of the Peugeot when it hit the enemy their darkening corpses collided with the vehicle's grille.

The soldiers that hadn't been disintegrated either jumped out of the way or were crushed with the melodious snaps, crackles and pops of shattered bones. The soldiers that _had _been disintegrated, however, simply _split in half _where the car's bonnet hit them, the parts that had hit the grille exploded like a cloud of compact black dust, almost like ramming into ash. Their torsos, under the influence of gravity and momentum, slid up the bonnet, _into _the car through the shattered windscreen and exploded in a cloud of thick soot on the worn out back seats and the two insurgents in the front seat.

His vision suddenly blacked out by the ash covering his glasses, Gordon slammed on the brakes and sent the car fishtailing in a flurry of burning rubber and acrid white smoke. Once the car had finally stopped, Gordon pulled his glasses off and tried blowing the ash-like substance off. Unfortunately, he only managed to dislodge a thin layer from the lenses of his spectacles. Furiously aware that they'd soon be under fire again, he turned to the Gman, who was entirely unaffected. Beside him, the general cursed under his breath. "Gman, can you clean them?"

Taking Gordon's glasses, the Gman blew lightly on the lenses. The stuff blew off like it was fine dust. Not bothering to ask questions — gunfire had just erupted from somewhere behind them — Gordon slammed back down on the accelerator and took off, straightening up again and driving down the middle of the road.

"Shit, Gordon, I can't see!" the general roared from beside him after the car had gained speed, his lazuline eyepieces completely masked by the thick ash-like dust.

"We'll worry about that when we get there!" Gordon yelled back as bullets bounced loudly off the boot of their battered car. Suddenly, a revoltingly sharp splatter echoed out from the back of the car, followed immediately by faint thuds of something wet and sticky hitting the back of the general's leather seat.

"Ah, that's rather unfortunate," the eyepatch-clad Gman muttered nonchalantly, trying to wipe the blood from the headrest of the general's seat. Suddenly feeling extremely nauseous, Gordon glanced over at the general, who was looking back at the Gman even though he couldn't actually see him. That meant the general was alive.

It also meant something had happened to the Gman.

Not wanting to look away from the road, seeing as they were rapidly approaching the foot of the Citadel, Gordon focused on the road. "What happened?" he asked, not confident that he actually wanted to know.

The general didn't know either, but he desperately wanted to. "Gman?" he added.

With an inquisitive innocence like that of a child, the Gman rubbed around the ridge of the large exit hole in his forehead, blood caking on his probing finger. "Good shot."

"Someone shot you?"

"Easily fixable," the Gman answered, "seeing as the bullet isn't actuall— oh, wait," he looked down at the floor, leaning over to pick something up. Then he smiled, slipping whatever it was into his trouser pocket. "It appears the bullet removed the part of my brain housing the rifle round from two days ago. That's even better."

"It _what?_" Gordon demanded, snapping his head around for a split second to see if the Gman was being serious. Spotting the Gman's finger about to slide into his forehead, the expression on Gordon's ash covered face changed from incredulity to unrivalled horror. Then he puked all over the partition between the front seats and slammed on the brakes again, just as they reached the end of the street.

"Please tell me it isn't that bad..." the general mumbled weakly, bowing his head.

Moaning, Gordon looked up at the Gman, who was cleaning his finger on the fabric seat he was sitting on. "Sorry about that, Dr. Freeman." The Gman offered apologetically, meeting Gordon's unwavering gaze. Closing his eyes, the Gman rested his hands in his lap as the wound suddenly closed over, the blood fading away as if some invisible hand were wiping a stain of a window.

Watching the apparent simplicity the Gman had just repaired his head with, Gordon's eyes averted to the patch of material over the guardian's hollow eyesocket. "Why the hell didn't you do that with your eye?" he demanded feebly.

"The eye is much more difficult to reproduce."

"More so than your _brain_?"

The general's hands clamped over his ears vainly.

"I... well, I actually only covered the wound over," the Gman admitted, pausing briefly. "Yes, I'm still alive with a hole drilled through my cerebrum. It's hard to explain."

"I'll bet it is," Gordon muttered, looking back out the empty windscreen at the giant blue behemoth of metal looming before them. "Alright, everyone out."

Gordon and the Gman climbed from the car, the Gman rubbing his head as the general felt around on the inside for the door handle. Eventually, the disoriented officer gracelessly opened the door and stumbled out. The Gman calmly waved his hand over the general, causing the caked ash to fall to the ground like light soot in the wind. "Thanks," the general nodded at the suited guardian. "Now what happened?"

"Someone shot me in the head." The Gman explained, walking past him and waving his hand over Gordon too. The ash fell away just as effortlessly. "But it's no reason for concern; it was a simple matter to rectify."

"Right." The general shook his head in amazement, the cracks of gunfire still resonating off the soaring walls lining the lengthy avenue. Turning around, the general grunted angrily and looked back inside the car they'd hijacked. His rifle, covered in the same thick ash, lay on top of the glove compartment. Pulling the door opening and grabbing the weapon, the general examined it petulantly and passed it to the Gman. "Mind helping me out?"

With a casual wave of his hand, the ash came free in a cloud of faint black particles. Giving the Gman an appreciative nod, the general knelt down beside the boot of the sideways parked car and slowly tried picking the approaching Belgians off.

Gordon turned from trying to see the peak of the Combine tower through the clouds at the sound of close gunfire. As he did, he spotted the Gman putting a hand on the general's shoulder. "Allow me," he heard the dapper guardian offer, walking around the front of the general and grabbing onto the boot of their trusty little Peugeot.

Thinking he was going to throw the vehicle, the general stepped back. Instead, the Gman simply swung it around so that it was facing the enemy and placed the sole of one of his snappy black shoes on the boot. "Did you put the handbrake on, Dr. Freeman?"

Gordon frowned. "Uh, I kinda threw up, so I don't think so..."

Nodding, the Gman looked at the soldiers in the distance and thrust forward with his leg. The Peugeot took off like the Gman had started some kind of jet propulsion, its tires making no effort to resist this sudden explosion of momentum as it rocketed toward the enemy faster than its TU3 1360cc engine could ever take it, slamming into the shocked and confused Overwatch troopers before they had time to react. Their bodies were _obliterated, _exploding in a shower of torn flesh, pulped marrow and a cloud of blood haze as if they'd been hit by a rocket propelled _tank_.

Turning away from the carnage he'd created in the distance, the Gman walked back past the speechless general and looked up at the Citadel. "From which level are we able to broadcast?"

"The top floor, or the Advisors' chambers." The general explained, his voice laced with traces of remaining shock.

"Which would be easier to reach?"

"You'd have to navigate the subterranean levels to reach the Advisors' chambers," the general continued. "And there's an elevator that goes straight to the top floor."

"Top floor it is, then." The Gman decided, looking up at the Citadel in objective approval.

Gordon, meanwhile, was focused on the giant metal palisade making up the Citadel's wall glowing in the moonlight. They were the same as the ones he'd seen in City 17, churning up blocks and blocks of housing and blocking off numerous streets in an attempt to minimise the Resistance's movements during the Uprising. "They're mechanised, aren't they?" Gordon asked the general, pointing at the wall.

The general nodded. "Smart Barriers, we call them. They're pretty much just independent mobile walls. The one surrounding the Citadel here's the Inner Wall, it hasn't moved since we arrived here."

"How do you get in then?" Gordon asked inquisitively.

The general chuckled a bit at that. "The pylons covering the railway lift when the Razor Train comes, Freeman. There's a bridge crossing the crevasse the Citadel's in, it's also got room enough for infantry and mechanised units to travel."

"What if, I dunno, a rebel snuck in while the pylons were raised?"

"He'd be screwed," the general laughed. "Can't get into the Citadel without being part of the Combine, there's an anti-Combine forcefield on the other side of the bridge."

"So how do _we_ get in?"

"Perhaps I'll just turn it off?" the general suggested, walking in front of Gordon brandishing his rifle. "Come on, our people are dying as we speak. Let's bring that to an end, shall we?"

"Agreed," Gordon nodded, hoisting his own weapon and heading after the general, the Gman following immediately behind.

—

Wailing deeply as it violently shook its bulbous body, the Strider tried desperately to shake the persistent robotic fiend clawing at its armoured metal skull. His dented Scanner head a mask of inhuman apathy, Dog pressed on despite the horrid moaning, his electronic mind completely oblivious to the sick resemblance his actions had to the scalping of a man.

His thick mechanical fingers trying to squeeze under the creature's plate armour, Dog whooped in what some might've thought to be frustration. His cyclopean eye transfixed on the shaking Strider's head, he only became aware of the rocket flying at him mere moments before it would've crashed into him. His salvaged head snapping up at the roar of the explosive's jets he swung himself down onto the underside of the Strider's body, hanging onto its two rear legs as the rocket sailed past overhead. Confident he was now safe, Dog began hoisting himself back up on top of the Strider's head, just as a small laser light appeared on his huge torso.

Catching a glimpse of the tiny dot and hearing the suddenly increasing volume of the rocket's engines from behind him Dog jumped forward, swinging himself down in front of the Strider's head this time and...

...coming face to face with the Synth's gigantic swinging turret.

His single red eye widening in frenetic terror, Dog tried pulling himself back up onto the Strider's body as the cannon began blazing majestic sapphire fire and absolutely pummelling Dog's armoured torso with a tremendously powerful fusillade of pulse slugs. With every one of the point blank blows rocking Dog's thick body and pounding it like a mechanised warhammer, the metal of his torso quickly split, tore with a violent rip and caved in on itself.

The effect on Dog's body was critical, it was the equivalent of snapping one's spine clean in half. From his neck down his mechanical frame simply shut down, his hands letting go of the Strider's head without objection and his paralytic body falling the fifteen metres from the Strider's head to the ground.

Crashing into the grassy ground like a ten tonne weight, Dog could only watch helplessly as the Strider issued a howl like that of a cybernetic wolf standing over its prey and brought one of its pointy arachnoid legs down on his battered skull. Unable to do anything other than desperately try and turn his head away, his head was impaled under the Strider's merciless tread, crackling noisily as sparks spewed forth from his shattered eye and his head was pulled involuntarily along with the unconcerned Synth like some kind of prize.

And Dog's robotic mind died.

As the towering Synth marched toward the rebel force slowly backing down from the fight, only a minority having witnessed Dog's terrible fate, a convoy of APCs drove across the Strider's path along the western road of the Esplanade, heading for the Citadel to begin the attack against it while the rest of the Belgian mechanised and infantry units took care of the primary harassment that was the insurgent force swarming around the northern end of the promenade.

Its giant leg lifting again, Dog's lifeless metal frame finally slid free of the spiny limb and hit the ground will a dull thud, the jagged rim of the large hole through his head sparking unevenly as tiny surges of power coursed through his static form.

The tide of the battle had taken a turn for the worst a mere ten minutes in.

The rebel forces broke ranks and split up, running in every which way as the Overwatch advanced without a break in their stride; a constant and consistent march forward as their opposition collapsed and broke off.

Finally, having forced the insurgent unit to retreat, the Overwatch infantry divided and pursued the largest groups as all forms of vehicular hardware drove, plodded and galloped toward the Citadel superimposed on the night sky. After the first unit of armoured personnel carriers had dealt out whatever punishment they could on whoever was at the Citadel this unit would come in and cement their victory.

And if Freeman managed to get inside, then they would lay siege to the Citadel and prevent him from escaping. It was a remarkably simple tactic, and the Belgians had no doubt in their minds that it would prove fruitful.

* * *

**As you might have realised, yes, I broke my promise. As one chapter, it was going to be over 20,000 words and that was just too bloody big, so I cut it in half. The second part is almost done, but I decided that I'd better upload this so you wouldn't have to wait _as _long. Apart from school getting in the way of writing, my laptop was out of commission for a week and a half and I went away for a week for Mum's 40th (got to go in a helicopter, pity it's too late to incorporate what it feels like into this fic...) between when I started writing this chapter (12 October) and finally decided to chop it in half today (20 November).**

**So, regardless of my totally unreliable predictions and huge wait, I hope you enjoyed part one. Part two just needs to be finished off and it should be up within a few days. And then you all get a lovely little epilogue and this demanding project will be complete... just in time for the holidays.**

**I couldn't have timed it worse if I tried.  
**


	36. Thrity Five: Incontrovertibility Pt Two

**-=Chapter Thirty Four: Incontrovertibility Part Two=-**

**Inside the Inner Wall of City 7, 9:41 PM**

Running his thickly gloved fingers through his hair, Gordon trudged on behind the general toward the indescribably large tower about fifty metres away. His rifle swinging by his side in one hand, Gordon looked down over the edge of the wide bridge they were now traversing, into the deep rocky crevasse that had once been soil underneath the giant park behind the Eiffel Tower.

Surprisingly, the bridge had no guard rails, despite the fact that the sections for foot soldiers were on the edges. The railway ran in the middle, with two lanes of bitumen road on either side of it for APCs. They were also far enough apart that if a Strider had to walk across it wouldn't get in the way of the trains.

The design itself was rather lacking, and Gordon hadn't even been expecting anything above average. It was essentially a fifteen metre wide concrete slab that someone had stretched out across the seventy five metre gap between the Inner Wall and the Citadel complete with road, railway and footpath. There weren't any visible supports from where Gordon was, though he assumed they were on the underside and he wasn't exactly enthusiastic about the prospect of kneeling down and looking underneath with the giant pit trailing away beneath it.

They made it to about half way across the bridge before something started whining mechanically from far behind them. Turning to see what it was, Gordon looked past the Gman, who was walking just behind him, and instead focused on the line of armoured personnel carriers speeding toward them as the giant metal pillars of the Inner Wall started to drop.

Bad news: cars don't take that long to get across seventy five metres of road.

Springing immediately into action, the Gman broke away from the other two while they hurriedly started running toward the Citadel. Gordon knew that seventy five metres wasn't that long if you were running either and they were already halfway across, but whether or not they'd get to the Citadel with their bodies relatively intact depended on how many APCs the Gman could stop. Gordon had counted at least four before he'd turned to run and there were two roads the Gman had to cover.

How many would get past him?

While he didn't get a direct answer, there was a tremendous smash of buckling metal and shattering glass a few seconds later. It sounded a lot like the noise Gordon had heard earlier when the APC that blew up their train had unsuccessfully tried to make the Gman a strawberry pancake. He didn't turn back to see the guardian as he vaulted onto the steep dented bonnet of the first personnel carrier and jumped from the roof into the windscreen of the second one, his powerful legs crashing through the reinforced glass like it was brittle candy and flattening the driver's masked face like a ripe tomato.

Following through immediately by hoisting himself onto the roof using the top edge of the windscreen, the Gman landed gracefully on the roof and threw himself across the train tracks bisecting the two roads at the right side of the third APC. His deceptively built frame crashing into the APC's hard armour, it suffered a giant dent and flipped on its side, skidding over to the edge of the bridge in a shower of sparks and rolling onto its roof just as it slid into the gaping depths below.

Before it had even tipped over the side the Gman had stood up, turned to the vehicle that had been following behind it and thrust an open palm at it. Harnessing an incredible payload of invisible telekinesis the APC went screeching backwards at phenomenal speed until its blocky rear crashed into the towering columns of the Inner Wall it had come through moments previously.

As the Gman was about to deal death to the final APC, something yanked on the collar of his suit jacket and he felt something else get shoved down his back. Swinging his arm around reflexively the back of the Gman's wrist smashed into his assailant's face, his mask and right jawbone caving in as the skin of his cheek tore messily inside his helmet and a geyser of crimson sprayed onto the Gman's hand.

Suddenly, the Gman realised what had been stuffed inside his suit. He could feel it on his back, smooth, hard and curved, cylindrical.

It was a grenade.

In a nanosecond, the Gman's mind flashed back to Gordon's heroic feat back in Switzerland on the roof of the Palace of Nations, shoving the grenade launcher barrel of Corporal Shephard's M4A1 into his doppelganger's torn open stomach. The explosion had ripped him in half.

Hurriedly reaching around to his back, the Gman frantically shook the back of his suit jacket, desperately tryi—

_Boom!_

With a furious roar, the grenade detonated, sending out a shockwave of fire and pressure that rolled across the bridge and off the side of the second APC, the one whose windscreen and driver had been smashed by the Gman. Among the detritus flung into the air, myriad shreds of bloodstained material fluttered like burning leaves in the wind to the ground.

The Combine soldiers that had climbed from the wreck of the first armoured personnel carrier hadn't worried watching the carnage. Instead, they'd charged after the escaping physicist and his Overwatch companion, their rifles up and blazing gold and sapphire as soldiers from the second APC followed them.

Energy slugs cracking the air around him, Gordon spun on his heels and snapped his own rifle up, dropping quickly to his knees and squeezing off a precise burst that ripped the skin from one of the four soldier's chest, lifting him into the air and sending him tumbling backwards as if he'd been hit with a mighty uppercut.

His comrades dropped to their knees as others joined them and Gordon in turn got back up and continued running the final few metres into the Citadel. Gunfire started up again as he scurried into the faint azure light provided by the thousands of globes in the roof of the interior depot, stretching out into the distance for as far as he could see. Only problem was, he was stuck on the other side of one of those anti-Combine forcefields the general had assured him would be there. Gritting his teeth as the incessant gunfire whizzed and snapped all around his head, he dropped to the ground and lay prone on the cold grey metal that had replaced the concrete bridge about a metre away.

Then one of the APC's suddenly flipped up into the air from behind the two enemy fireteams, spinning rapidly in the air before reaching its peak and hurtling down into the ground, rolling over the seven or so Overwatch troopers and smothering their bodies all over its roof.

Climbing to his feet, Gordon watched as the Gman — for some reason wearing only a singed and tattered piece of white cloth with sleeves — walked around from behind it and headed toward him.

From behind Gordon, a low hum suddenly ceased and a faint blue glow on the ground cut out. Gordon turned to see the general waving to him, the forcefield now deactivated.

A loud crash brought his attention back to the Gman. Catching a glimpse of a flame-licked personnel carrier skidding off the bridge into the abyss, Gordon watched as one final APC rocketed toward the Gman as he walked calmly toward the Citadel.

Without breaking a stride as the roar of the vehicle's engine became louder and louder, the Gman offered Gordon a thin smile he wasn't even sure the scientist could see. Then, when the Gman was a mere fifteen metres from the Citadel, the APC crashed into him...

... and went flying into the air, flipping boot over bonnet in a wide arc through the sky, flying into the fluorescent lighting of the Citadel's depot and crashing down on the railway with a hideous grinding sound.

Soon after, the Gman reached the spot where Gordon was standing, walking up to him as if he hadn't even noticed his clothes in the dismal state they were in or the crushed APC lying a few metres away. Watching him walk past and spotting his scarcely covered back, Gordon opened his mouth to say something before the Gman calmly explained, "someone put a grenade down my back."

Gordon didn't bother asking about the crumpled mess of metal on the tracks, even after the Gman walked past it without so much as a dismissive glance.

Thinking about the whole grenade scenario, Gordon focused on the Gman's back. His skin seemed perfectly fine, but Gordon decided not to question the Gman's ability to fix whatever had happened. He'd done fine repairing the hole in his head... but Gordon had seen what a grenade could do to a Fissionist first hand. "And you're still in one piece?" he asked slowly, following the 'suited' guardian, in lieu of better description.

"I too was surprised," the Gman admitted bluntly as he and Gordon headed over to the equally confused general. "But I think the reason you were able to do such damage to my duplicate was the explosion occurred inside his body."

"So all that happened to you was it shredded your clothes?"

"And the skin of my back," the Gman added, walking around a brightly lit corner and briefly examining a Combine charger on the wall, gesturing to it so Gordon would notice. "But that issue was easily rectified."

"Hang on," Gordon pressed, glancing at the charger, "a lucky bullet is enough to blow a hole through your head, but a grenade exploding on your back only skins you?"

The Gman shrugged. "I wouldn't say it was a lucky bullet..." he put his hand in the pocket of his pants, pulling out two bloody slugs of metal. "Same calibre, at least before they crumpled inside my skull. Both of them came from a heavy calibre sniper rifle and both were supposed to kill me." He allowed himself the luxury of a humoured snort as he passed the general. "Neither did it very well, as you can see."

Gordon just stared at the Gman in disbelief, before shaking his head and pressing his thumb against the small glowing light in the centre of the wall charger, watching the little button beside it pump in and out and the glowing bar below it slowly slide back into the machine. After a few moments, the charger made a dull negative drone and Gordon withdrew his hand, raising his rifle and wrapping his hand around the handguard as he looked at the others as they waited patiently for him. "So, now we're on the home straight?"

"Hopefully so," the general replied as they headed off again. "And hopefully nobody from the Belgian Overwatch is going to be waiting for us at the top."

"And if they are?" Gordon inquired, rounding another corner into a wide open expanse of utilitarian blue-grey floor, the walls angled at odd gradients and covered in lofty metal protrusions jutting out from them like rectangular lumps.

The general's mirrored eyes panned the giant anteroom, settling on a hexagonal glass elevator resting complacently in the middle. "Then we'll have to kill them, won't we?"

—

Far above the glow of the streetlights nestled among the innumerable streets of Paris' City 7, something streaked across the moonlit sky like a missile, enveloped in impenetrable darkness despite the radiance of the moon above.

Shaped like a bulbous knobbly bullet, it glided across the gunfire illuminated cityscape down at ground level, heading directly toward the imposing goliath of alien metal absolutely dwarfing even the tallest of structures swarming at its mighty feet.

It had been liberated from imprisonment, and now it had the opportunity to remediate the crimes committed against it by delivering justice to those responsible for its incarceration.

Peace had been majorly restored between mankind and the Combine, but unfortunately the means had been grossly undesirable and resulted in numerous consequences. The French had taken irrational action, and all negative subsequence had committed inexcusable felony.

Insurrection, regardless of calibre, was not to be left unresolved.

The Advisors would once against take control of Earth, and all opposition would be crushed without consideration. Every man, woman and member of the Overwatch that had taken up arms against those on the side of justice would have any obstruction they presented eradicated with extreme prejudice.

And when the Evacuation Fleet finally arrived, the only support required would be to complete autonomy and welcome those men and women who had complied with the Combine's wishes into the vast arms of the Universal Union.

The only question was how many had not blindly followed the wishes of Gordon Freeman...

But that was a concern to be tackled later. At present, the only thing that this Advisor had to deal with was re-entering the Citadel and demanding the French stand down or be destroyed by the imminently victorious Belgian invaders.

It did not wish to see the soldiers and humans it had governed for almost twenty one years annihilated due to their illogical arrogance. They had never wanted destruction in excess of the requirement for subjugation as had been brought about by mankind's constant attempts at rebellion.

Electing a leader from among the natives had never failed previously, at least not to the degree to which it had here on Earth. The Combine had been baffled by Wallace Breen's failure to convince his fellow men and women the Combine were trying to save them. For many years he had proclaimed they represented a step forward, but he had been ignored.

Mankind was resolutely opposed to the possibility that the Combine were doing what they thought everyone realised was beneficial. Universal unity was the epitome of achievement for the many races of the universe. Recently they had discovered the means was undesirable to some species, especially mankind, but desirability came second when such methods were so successful.

If only the human race had been a little more patient. Or rather, if only Dr. Freeman hadn't come along and made his own misinformed decisions, shattering every form of order the Combine had put in place in favour of his own self-righteous anarchist state.

His actions had been critically detrimental to the Combine, and desperate times had called for desperate measures. So the Advisors had sacrificed a number of soldiers to eradicate the source of mankind's insurrection in Rostock, what did it matter? At least _they_ had achieved something, rather than having Freeman and his entourage waltz in and out and have the soldiers die anyway.

Unfortunately, the other Gordon Freeman had been resurrected by the traitorous Phyx and the French general had shown he was just as foolish as Freeman by starting his own insurrection on the grounds of Advisor corruption.

And now, as this one Advisor came ever closer to the looming Citadel, it considered this might be the last chance it would ever get to pacifistically end this ridiculous insurrection once and for all.

Besides, Freeman had shown he was willing to be diplomatic back at the Palace of Nations. The Advisors knew he was no fool, so perhaps he could be convinced to stand down also if shown the wrong he had committed?

—

The giant open elevator came to a silent halt on the next floor up, and Gordon couldn't help but feel they'd left the Citadel entirely and entered some sort of grandly furnished vestibule in an expensive hotel or something.

Gone were the endless walls of sheer blue-grey metal and strong fluorescent lighting, the ambience of machines at work and the labyrinthine rails hanging in the ceiling that Gordon had seen both in the central Citadel in Romania and the level below them. In their place was something akin to the decor of Dr. Breen's penthouse, lights giving off a warm orange glow that suited the dark alien material splayed over the floor and the strangely translucent copper-coloured desks lining the walls on either side.

The elevator, now out of the powerful industrial lighting of the level below, no longer looked faintly blue but rather like polished diamond, standing out pleasantly against the auburn carpet-like fabric on the floor.

"I wasn't expecting this," Gordon muttered quietly as he and the other two stepped off the transparent hexagonal panel glistening in the floor.

The general glanced back at him, walking through the aisle between the columns of copper desks. "Were you expecting anything in particular?"

Gordon shrugged casually, "blue metal and grey floor."

The general let out a humoured huff at Gordon's expectation. "Guess you haven't been inside the _real _part of the Citadel."

Without answering, Gordon ran a gloved finger along the surface of a nearby desk. The first thing he noticed was the temperature, and the second was the texture. It was warm, but he didn't know a word to describe what it felt like. He withdrew his hand, like a child experiencing something new that it didn't understand. "What's this desk made of?"

"There's no human word for it," the general explained, having stopped to watch Freeman's experimentation.

"What's the Combine word?" Gordon pressed.

The general made a noise that sounded like someone sucking in air noisily mixed with a sharp hum. "That's why I didn't say it," he added, noticing Gordon's dumbfounded expression.

The Gman placed his finger on another desk, looking down with his one eye at its reddish-brown colour. Holding it there for a few moments, he slowly took has hand away and turned back to the general. "It's been a while since I've felt that."

"I imagine it would've been." The general nodded.

Gordon looked around the room again, still a little amazed at the general appearance of the room, and how deeply it contrasted the decor of every other Combine facility he'd ever been inside. Then again, the places he'd been in had almost always been for military or industrial purposes, and every other time the Combine had just fixed up the already existing human infrastructure.

Seeing this, and just how pleasant it was to look at and be in... the gradually narrowing gap between mankind and the Combine seemed even smaller. Perhaps they really weren't so different.

"If I hadn't come along..." Gordon looked at the general quickly, "...this is the sort of stuff we'd have gotten from the Combine Empire?"

"Mankind was destined for amalgamation into the Universal Union," the general nodded. "We showed our ability to suppress rebellion and offered people the surgical process to become part of the Overwatch as early as possible. We didn't take into account mankind would be both disgusted at the prospect and see it as betrayal of their species."

"The colonel at White Forest told me the plan was to have everyone undergo that procedure." Gordon added. "So you could change the atmosphere and set up a proper Combine state on Earth."

"It's what we did for every planet." The general answered. "Once the entire population had undergone the procedure — in the past this had never taken more than fifty or so of your years — a fleet would've come from the Capital to finalise our independence as another of the myriad states under the Combine Empire."

Gordon thought about that for a moment, touching the desk tentatively once more. "Is that why you suppressed reproduction?"

The general seemed impressed at Gordon's deduction. "Smart man. You're right, a bigger population was one of the reasons, along with the fact that we couldn't perform the procedure on children and doubtless whatever human guardians they might have had would've taught them to despise us."

Gordon smiled. "That was one of the last things lingering in my mind about how legitimate this all is."

"I've heard the stories, Gordon." The general continued. "Mankind was convinced we'd suppressed reproduction to slowly wipe you out." He looked behind him, down the long aisle toward the end of the room. A single door waited in the centre of the far wall. "We shouldn't be dawdling," he muttered, "we can talk in the elevator."

Gordon watched him start walking again, before he and the Gman followed. "Is that the elevator to the top?" he stared at the solitude door down the end of the long room.

"Indeed it is," the general replied, without turning his head.

"How long will it take to get to the top?"

"At a speed we'll be able to comfortably ride at? Three minutes."

In his mind's eye, Gordon pictured the ineffably tall construct in which he was now standing from outside, its peak invisible from below the clouds. And they were going to reach that unseeable pinnacle in three minutes. "Fast elevator..."

"You got that right," the general looked back at Gordon as he reached the lift doors, punching the button with his clenched fist and turning back to watch the doors slide open with a hushed pneumatic hiss.

The three of them shuffled inside the well-sized elevator, Gordon only taking a moment to appreciate the design once the doors had closed and he'd felt the lift start to rise. The decoration was similar to the area they'd just been in, with warm orange paint, gold bars lining the walls and bronze bands around the door frame.

It offered little distraction from the gravity of their situation... but at least they were probably well and truly past the more difficult part of the journey.

Now that they were in the elevator, Gordon thought about the general's earlier comments. He didn't have much else to say about the topic, now that he thought about it, other than he was satisfied with everything he'd been told and all the sense it made. "Sorry about starting the Uprising," he offered with a somewhat awkward nonchalance, in the tone one would use if they'd forgotten to bring something a friend had asked them to.

The general glanced over at him, the glow of the ceiling light shining in the officer's blue eyepieces. "The hell are you sorry for?"

"Screwing everything over?" Gordon added with a frown.

The general chortled softly at that. "I honestly don't get where you come from sometimes, Freeman. If you hadn't started the Uprising, we wouldn't be going up to the top of the Citadel here to deliver our little ultimatum."

"Exactly my point!" Gordon insisted. "If I hadn't come along and started the Uprising, your plan would've gone ahead without any real resistance."

"Then mankind would have been absorbed into the Combine, we'd have moved on to whatever planet we next discovered without changing our imperialistic methods and the Fissionist Faction would still be on our ass trying to wriggle inside our armour." The general retorted. "Is that how you would've preferred this all to play out?"

Gordon paused. "OK, I'm glad I started the Uprising and all... but think about what I did to get here. I struck at the heart of your empire, even though you were trying to help us, letting the Fissionist Faction run in and tear you to shreds."

The general shrugged. "Being a patriot blinds you sometimes. I'm still as loyal to my nation as I ever was, but I can't argue that we were a menace to most of the universe. That's why the Fissionist Faction was trying to stop us and why I'm _glad _that with their help you finally did."

Gordon stared incredulously at the general. "You're _glad _I stomped your country and had it ground up?"

"Why the hell do you think I'm still helping you, other than there being no other alternative?" the general inquired. "You've shown me that we were a threat and how we can start anew with a more peaceful approach to unification, together with mankind."

"You think the rest of the Overwatch will see it that way?"

"Absolutely," the general nodded. "What I'm actually worried about is what the Advisors wil—"

"We have a problem." The Gman interrupted matter-of-factly.

Both Gordon and the general looked at the Gman, who was standing behind the two against the back wall. He was looking at something on the floor, his face set with a look of grim discovery. The physicist and the officer followed his gaze, their eyes landing on a small metal capsule lying alone on the material-covered elevator floor.

It was a munitions capsule from an Overwatch Standard Issue Pulse Rifle.

Slowly, the Gman knelt down and picked up the little conical pellet, twirling it in his fingers. "It's still warm," he breathed, standing back up and watching as Gordon's expression changed and the general's eternally apathetic mask of a visage stayed the same. "They must have beaten us by mere minutes."

Gordon looked up at the roof, his mind going into overdrive as he visualised the platoon of soldiers waiting at their terminus, ready to send them to hell the same way they now travelled. "We're screwed." He mumbled to himself, despondence crawling into his mind once again.

The Gman, as expected, shared none of Freeman's anxiety. "You two, press yourselves against the walls," he instructed, gesturing to the walls either side of the double doors before them. Obeying immediately, the two moved over to either side, the general presciently hoisting his rifle and aiming it at the door. Gordon followed suit as the Gman made to brush off his nonexistent lapels, causing the tattered material of his shirt to fold off his shoulders and flap loosely at his front.

The Gman nonchalantly flipped the loose piece back up over his shoulder, his countenance telegraphing his displeasure to the two before him. Quietly, he reached into one of his trouser pockets and, like a magician performing a trick, pulled free a minutely folded blue suit jacket which he promptly unfolded, slid his thinly clad arms into and pulled it tightly around himself.

When he loosened his grip to button it up, Gordon noticed his shirt had suddenly repaired itself.

Silently, Gordon returned his focus to the glimmering doors before him. He didn't know how many soldiers were waiting to meet them at the top, but he doubted it would be any more than six. The elevator could only hold so much. Unless the elevator had been on more than one trip in the recent past...

_And unless I stop being so damn pessimistic I'm going to get my ass kicked_, he scolded himself.

There was a panel on the general's side, adorned with a big black button and two digital counters. The highest counter was in place of a list of floors and it showed the time remaining until arrival on the top level, currently at 0:26. The one directly underneath it was flickering up quite rapidly, now at 972 and with a single empty space for when it hit the thousand mark.

He licked the roof of his mouth, wishing that it didn't have the unpleasant taste he found himself experiencing. He didn't know why he was so nervous, especially with the man who'd taken two bullets to the noggin on two of the three days Gordon had been alive this year standing right behind him. The Gman had no intentions of letting him die, and he was certainly capable of stopping it.

But then again, Gordon wouldn't have needed to be resurrected three nights ago if death was impossible. The potential existed... it was just highly unlikely.

And why did he need to be worried? He was Gordon Freeman, the guy who'd survived being concurrently attacked by aliens, his own country's Marine Corps and a research facility that had become completely unstable from the two of them blowing the hell out of it.

After that, he'd survived running around with alien law enforcement and local military on his ass long enough to blow up a ex-high security penitentiary, start the Uprising, destroy the centre of the alien's administration on Earth and eventually launch a devastating rocket at their Capital through a portal they'd intended to get reinforcements through.

He'd survived all that, no sweat. Well, sweat included. Why did he need to worry about this? He'd only ever really had extreme difficulty with Advisors, one of which was the cause of his death last year in the bowels if White Forest.

But there wouldn't be any Advisors here. They were probably still trying to maintain command in Switzerland while he and his retinue of rebels actually took decisive action in ending this whole thing.

He'd learnt that the only useful sort of politics in this chaotic anarchist time was diplomacy, and the Advisors seemed to have that muddled in with all the other half-assed things they were attempting to keep intact over the rabble of humans and the increasingly large one of their own soldiers.

It was their fault anyway, nuking Rostock and sacrificing that many men in their desperation to eradicate him. And on top of that, the Advisors on Trysik had simply sent whatever Phyx were available to Earth without actually checking where their loyalties lay, resulting in rogue necromancers running around screwing with the Combine.

The Advisors didn't seem to be very good leaders. How the hell had they run such a large and powerful Empire for this long? Well, Gordon knew they only really ran things on a state level. Apparently running the world was a bit of a stretch for them.

Not to ring his own bell, but Gordon thought he was doing a decent jo—

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

In the moments before something flew through the doors and someone pressed the button on the panel outside, Gordon saw an overturned desk, behind which three Overwatch Elites were aiming their pulse rifles directly inside. He imagined the general could see something similar from where he was. Without a moment's pause, Gordon squeezed the trigger on his pulse rifle and sprayed slugs of sparkling energy at the soldiers in his view.

Of course, neither he nor the general got much of a chance to attack or look, because that aforementioned something bounced into the small space of the elevator and the doors began to hiss shut.

Gordon didn't even need to look at it to know it was an MK3A2 concussion grenade, and by the time he glanced over at it the Gman had scooped it up in his powerful grip, twisted the fuse mechanism and yanked it out of the cylindrical explosive. Then, as the detonator at the bottom of the fuse exploded with the violent ferocity of a timid party cracker, he lunged forward and stuck the device in the doorway a split second before it closed.

The doors stopped, the dead grenade wedged between them. Standing there, Gordon noticed they weren't opening again like every elevator he'd ever seen with automatic doors did when faced with an obstruction.

The general, assumedly having taken the upper hand, took a quick step over to the doorway, shoved his rifle in between the gap and depressed the secondary trigger on the side of the weapon. With a vibratory hum, the underslung launcher jolted back as a bubble of lethal energy burst forth, bouncing off the walls and slamming into two elites trying to take cover behind the overturned desk on the right side of the room.

With chaos now irrefutably secured the Gman stuck his hands in the doorway and shoved the doors back on their rails, both the general and Gordon poking out from their own cover and quickly firing off at the soldiers as they tried to regain composure after the general's orb of destruction finally exploded at the back of the room. The final soldier on the right side of the room spun like a ballerina and tumbled to the floor after taking a burst to the shoulder, leaving only the three on the left side alive.

A moment after throwing the doors open, however, the two elites flanking the doorway — one of which had thrown the grenade now lying uselessly on the elevator's floor — took a step away from the wall they were pressed up against, aimed their Italian shotguns at the Gman and pounded away at his torso and head with a deafening fusillade of buckshot.

Needless to say, they were dealt with quite decisively. After all, it is not often one survives the total violent liquidation of their body, and these soldiers were of course no exception. But the Gman was left in a terrible state, shreds of fabric and skin peeling off his chest and face. Opening his single remaining eye, the eyelid covered in blood but obviously undamaged, the Gman looked down at the empty shells and crimson stained black shotguns lying in the puddles of blood and other strangely tinted juices draining from the deflated white suits of the two soldiers' fatigues.

And then he brushed himself off, his skin and garments knitted themselves back together perfectly after a few gentle swipes of his hand. When he raised his head, the others peering at him from their spots behind desks on the other side of the room saw that the skin of his face was unmarred also.

They didn't get much of a look, though, because Gordon and the general reappeared and squeezed off their own volley of gunfire from behind the seemingly unkillable guardian. Spotting the elites ducking their heads down, Gordon burst from cover and charged at their position, the general following suit a moment after.

The soldiers poked their heads up once again, this time seeing two people closing in on them. All three of them valiantly raised their rifles and started to fire before Gordon clambered up onto the furniture which they knelt behind and, standing tall atop the upturned desk like a gallant warrior, he took all three of them out with a sharp spray of gunfire.

Blood stained the tiled floor.

Gordon turned and stepped down from the blood spattered desk, the general standing behind him silently and the Gman walking calmly over from the elevator doors as they slowly hissed shut. "That was easier than I'd expected," Gordon admitted, looking down at his legs and frowning at the glossy red muck coating the orange armour.

"I would imagine that's not all," the Gman answered, walking past the mess Gordon had so kindly pasted across the ground to a single door in the left hand wall. "This is the top floor, correct?"

"Well, second," the general corrected. "There's an elevator in the room past that door leading up to it."

Thinking back to October last year, Gordon could remember Dr. Breen running into an elevator adjacent to his magnificent office, which he and Alyx had soon discovered led to a trans-universal communications system and a panoramic view of the Citadel's Dark Energy Reactor. "Alyx and I saw Dr. Breen using that room to talk to an Advisor on a Combine planet last year," he told the general.

"Only the Romanian Citadel would've had anything that fancy," the general explained. "Communicating with the Capital was exclusively available from the Administrator's residence. After all, the Combine hadn't conceived a contingency when someone other than the Administrator and his Advisors would require an audience with the Primes."

"So he was talking to a Prime?" Gordon muttered, remembering some subtle differences between the Advisor he'd seen then and the ones he'd encountered on Earth. The mechanical arms of the Prime he'd seen had been much bulkier, and there had been some sort of engraving on what appeared to be the ring around their 'neck'.

"I'd imagine so," the general nodded, watching as the Gman opened the door he was standing before and poked his head inside. Waiting for a few moments, the general eventually cocked his head suspiciously. "Anyone in there?"

"Evidently not," the guardian replied, stepping inside the room. Looking at Gordon, the two of them headed in after him.

As Gordon entered, he noticed a distinct similarity between Dr. Breen's office and the one he now found himself in, except he was seeing it from the side Alyx had been on while she was captive. Looking up at the roof, he saw multiple rails crossing it, all meeting together at a brightly glowing circular junction in the centre of the ceiling. There was an opulent desk and a large padded seat behind it, positioned before a few tall windows giving a view of the night sky beyond. The general decor was also quite similar, with the walls and floor covered in grey tiles and a sort of red material laid out on the two ramps either side of the luxurious desk. On the other side of the room were two large doors that appeared to be made out of wood. Gordon remembered that he had come through that doorway when he had been captive in the Citadel.

Taking a few steps inside, Gordon turned to face the door he'd come through, trying to remember if there had been a door in the same spot in Dr. Breen's office. Then again, he hadn't been looking for it and he realised it too had grey tiles on it when the general closed it. "Is this where you lived?" Gordon asked the general as the officer walked past him.

"Yeah," the general nodded slowly. "As the highest-ranking officer of the French Overwatch, I commanded the local Overwatch forces but had no authority over the civilian populace. To them, Dr. Breen was just as much the leader of the human race as he was anywhere else."

"So you were the leader of the Overwatch here?" Gordon repeated.

The general nodded again. "It's how we operate a colony: a chosen native leads the natives and the five-star generals of each state lead the Combine."

"So what do the Advisors do?"

"They act as the vice-administration and command the Combine leaders."

"You're not the highest authority over the Combine?"

The general rubbed his gloved hands together. "We're loyal to our local administration, global administration and imperial administration, in that order. Basically if Wallace Breen ordered us to do something against the Advisors' will, we would, and likewise if the Primes ordered us against the wishes of Wallace Breen. At least," he added, "that's how I see it. Others, like the Belgians down there, think the local administration has dominant power over them, at least when they cannot contact the Primes and the global administration has gone down the drain."

"Well, that clears things up, then." Gordon answered, looking around the office and rubbing his hands together. "So, are we going to go ahead with this broadcast?"

"Indeed we should," the general agreed, heading toward the hallway in the middle of the room. "Gman, are you coming too?"

The Gman shook his head politely, "I'll remain here during Dr. Freeman's broadcast, in the event that further Belgian opposition arrives."  
Nodding, the general looked over at Gordon. "You know what you're going to say?"

"I think so," Gordon nodded back. "I've just got to make sure the Combine know their only choice is collaboration with _us_."

"Don't smooth it over," the general added. "Tell it like it is, but make sure to clarify that you are deeply remorseful for what you caused and your enthusiasm to amalgamate the Combine and mankind peacefully."

"But will the Advisors accept it?"

The general paused momentarily. "Whether they like it or not, they can't refuse your proposal. The only logical decision they can make is to agree with your terms so as to not concrete their own extinction."

Gordon smiled. Man, he needed that sort of support right now. This was bigger than anything he'd ever done before, and that was coming from the man who'd escaped a research facility getting raped at both ends by aliens and people it had thought were its friends, among a plethora of other incredible feats.

They stepped into the elevator, and Gordon turned back to face inside the office. The Gman offered a casual wave at the two, which Gordon returned with a hint of nervous anticipation. Then the angled metal doors closed with a sharp grinding noise and the glass-like substance under their feet began to rise.

Gordon allowed himself a sigh. Not of disappointment or sorrow, but of rising anxiety. He wondered why, though. The general had just given ample and wonderfully rational encouragement, the sort that should've whisked away all his fears like chaff in a gale. But no, the anticipation of inciting such an abrupt and crucial turn of events through his imminent actions rested like a ten tonne weight in the pit of his stomach, with an expression he imagined was of complacent smugness at its ability to weigh down his psyche. "Holy shit, I'm nervous..." he mumbled, the words slipping from his lips as his concern rose.

A comforting hand slapped against his shoulder. "Hey, just remember: say what happened, tell 'em you're sorry and that you're open to fixing it all by restarting the Combine Empire with us here on Earth. It'll go down great with the Overwatch, and your words are like bloody dogma to mankind."

"And the Advisors can't refuse it," Gordon repeated, looking up to see the identical blue double doors coming ever closer from above. In under a minute, Gordon estimated about three-quarters of the planet would be listening to him explaining the orbital attack on the Combine Capital last year had allowed the Fissionist Faction to get a foothold in its territory and slowly rip the Empire to desperate, disconnected shreds.

Gordon couldn't even imagine how the Combine would feel. Would they react as he did when he learnt that they had incinerated the world order in seven hours twenty years before he'd arrived? No, he had seen things were horribly wrong before he learnt about the Seven Hour War.

This would come without any warning whatsoever, like a car accident. There had been no brooding of grey clouds overhead to augur the bad news that he was about to deliver.

Swallowing quietly, Gordon watched as the floor came to his eye level...

... and he saw an Advisor speaking on the giant screen at the far end of the room.

Gordon frowned as the doors slid open before him, confused at the image of the grotesque slug-like creature before him. He and the general stepped from the elevator and approached the screen, the strangely sibilant voice of the Advisor caressing the air with its words.

"—_tand down immediately. My fellow Advisors assumed command of this planet after Wallace Breen's foolish decisions to ally himself with the rebel forces and as the leader of this state I order all militant forces, militia and Overwatch, to cease fire and submit once more to authority. Due consequence will follow when order has been entirely restored."_

Gordon stared at the Advisor, listening as it broadcast its commands to the soldiers and rebels fighting far below. Initially, all it did was demand a cease fire. Then it started to diverge in the hope of convincing its audience, asking the civil populace if they thought Dr. Breen was some sort of traitor to their kind and arguing that he was trying to tell them all about the wonderful things the Combine were trying to do for them, which they had shown him after he'd thought organise a surrender.

After about a minute, the Advisor stumbled onto the topic of restoring order before the evacuation fleet arrived next June. As it said this, Gordon suddenly turned to the general, his eyes fierce. Any anxiety he had had earlier had evaporated in the heat of that powerful glare, and the general knew the scientist meant business. "Can we interrupt this broadcast?"

"Not that I know of," the general replied slowly, scanning the console before them as the Advisor's fricative words flowed out from it.

Gordon scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Can we talk to the Advisor from here?"

The general looked over at him briefly. "That we can do," he answered, flicking a few switches, "but it won't interrupted the broadcast."

"But will our voice be broadcast too?"

The general considered it. "Possibly. Look, it's not like anyone's tried talking to someone while making a broadcast before."

Gordon smiled. "What better time to start?"

The general nodded, chuckling quietly to himself. "Agreed," he looked up at the screen and pressed a button. "Go."

Unprepared, Gordon paused for a split second before speaking. "Advisor." He blurted out quickly, his mind racing as he thought of something to say next. "I have something I think you should know."

And as his voice rang out from the dozens of Breencast screens across the city, every head that heard those unexpected words turned to face the closest screen, watching as the Advisor onscreen froze in shock.

"_In fact,_" the iconic physicist continued, "_I have something I think you should _all _know._" He paused for the slightest moment, contemplating the gravity of what he was about to proclaim to the whole world. "_The evacuation fleet this Advisor speaks of is a lie. But," _he added quickly, so the Advisor wouldn't assume he was pulling shit to turn the rebels and soldiers against it,_ "the Advisors are not responsible for its construction. No, they lied to as well, by the Phyx. After all, the Phyx betrayed the Combine almost immediately after getting what they wanted, and had been planning to ever since they left their planet on the orders of the desperate Advisors there._

"_Why were the Advisors desperate, you ask? Well... the Combine Empire was on the brink of destruction at the hands of the Fissionist Faction. It fell in early May this year."_

Gordon waited a few moments, imagining the shock of the soldiers on the ground. No doubt most of the French Overwatch would be facing a pretty difficult problem in their minds: _our leader staged a coup to ally with our destroyer?_

Fully aware of how quickly this could turn into a bloodbath, he continued. "_But as I said, this all happened in early May, long before anyone knew about your true intentions here. Now that I know what the Combine came here for, I couldn't tell you how horrified I was to realise any chance of peace with your nation was impossible._

"_But now I have a solution to this problem: start over. Both the nations of man and the Combine Empire have been destroyed. Only a fraction of their original might remain, and coincidentally we find both of them on one planet? If the Combine is willing to amalgamate with what remains of mankind to form a new nation, to restart to Combine Empire together with the human race, then I see no reason why we shouldn't."_

Then he waited. He stood there and watched the Advisor splayed across the giant screen before him, his countenance set determinedly. He knew the Advisor was watching him, wherever it was inside the giant Citadel. Probably in the Advisor conference room the general had mentioned before.

A few moments later, the Advisor started talking to him. "The broadcast has been terminated," it announced matter-of-factly. "And I require affirmation on your proclamation: has the Universal Union truly fallen?"

The general stepped into view from behind Gordon. "It's true, Advisor," he answered, his tone appropriately smooth. "The Fissionist Gman assisting Dr. Freeman revealed the information yesterday evening. I was informed earlier today."

"And you accepted it?" the Advisor demanded immediately.

"As truth? Of course, the Gman had no reason to lie. But I didn't _want _to accept it; I attempted to murder both Dr. Freeman and the Gman."

The Advisor was silent for a few moments. "Evidently your loyalty to the throne hasn't wavered."

"Absolutely not. Surely you understand my actions were in the pursuit of loyalty?"

"Loyal by your own definitions, perhaps, but provably felonious," the Advisor retorted.

Not wanting to delay any longer, Gordon interrupted the two, "I made my proposition," he reminded the Advisor curtly. "What do you think about it?"

The Advisor's cybernetic oculus swivelled to face Gordon. "There is no chance that an evacuation fleet is coming?"

Gordon shook his head, "the entire Combine Empire has been destroyed. There are probably a few strands of survivors trying to avoid the Fissionist mercenary armies, but definitely not enough to send a fleet of ships to come and take you to what remains of your planets."

The Advisor pondered his response for a second. "Your proposal seems legitimate, Dr. Freeman," it answered, thinking about the calm diplomacy he'd shown over the past few days, "not to mention sensible. You have the Fissionist Gman accompanying you, don't you?"

"He's down in the general's office right now." Gordon nodded.

"I would imagine he has capacity enough to secure French dominion over this nation once more, correct?"

"Probably."  
"With that in mind, I can't imagine you would be making such a crucial proposition with such power at your disposal if you were intending on solving this all with combat."  
"I'm sick of fighting," Gordon explained, shrugging. "And I'm sick of killing. I don't want to see any more people die, especially now that I know what the Combine is all about."

"Loss of life is never an enjoyable thing," the Advisor agreed solemnly. Then it paused, thinking things over. "You say you regret destroying the Capital?"  
"If you intended to destroy the human race like I thought you did when I launched that rocket, then I would be overjoyed by it. But because you're trying to unite the universe, I realise I played a critical role in the downfall of an intelligent and influential society." Pausing as well, Gordon averted his eye momentarily. "If the Advisors accept my idea for amalgamation, then there is one thing I want changed concerning universal union."  
"What's that?" The Advisor inquired.

"We abolish your imperialistic methods in favour of consensual peace," Gordon explained.

Gordon waited for the Advisor to answer, watching it carefully. When it finally did, it made some sort of serpentine hiss mixed with a shrill gurgly cackle. "Freeman, why do you think we adopted imperialism?"  
"I've heard from the Swedish general that the Prime Advisors rejected making peace consensually because there'd always be societies that would refuse." Gordon replied, frowning. "I think that's ridiculous, you make peace with the states that want peace and leave everyone else alone."

"That isn't universal union."

"It's universal peace, isn't it?"  
"Not if those that refuse to join wage war with each other."

"Then perhaps you leave them to their own business?" Gordon suggested. "Look, you can't have absolute unity because you'd have to have a utopia, and utopias can't exist while people have different tastes and ideas."

The Advisor laughed its snake-like cackle again. "You think we adopted imperialism immediately? Freeman, conquest was a last resort for the Primes all those years ago! But it turned out to be the only way to unite the universe in its entirety, didn't it? Unless _you_ can come up with a more beneficial alternative?"

"Well, why not have an independent organisation that every nation can become a member of?" Gordon insisted. "You know about the United Nation, don't you? Dr. Breen surrendered from its headquarters in New York at the start of all this; why don't we set up something like that?"

The Advisor didn't respond for a few moments. Gordon prayed to whatever God the Gman had said existed that it wasn't something that had been considered before, that it really was the fantastic solution he hoped it was.

Then, its eyes fixated on Gordon's own, it spoke. "I will relay your proposal and points to the Advisors in Switzerland. Perhaps your ideas are not as illogically radical as some of them think."

"Wait," Gordon stopped the Advisor, trying not to let his relief overwhelm him. "Am I allowed to broadcast all this?"

The Advisor contemplated for a moment. "Wait until I have the Advisors answer."

"You want us to stay here?"

"Until we have made our decision."

"How long will that be?"

Pausing, the Advisor thought about it. "You will have the answer by early tomorrow morning. Make sure you are present when I return."

And with that, the screen cut to black.

His gaze lingering on the monochromic screen for a few speechless moments, Gordon saw himself faintly reflected on its surface. His hair was messy, his beard was somewhat unruly and his eyes, though they glistened, showed he was weary as hell.

_But you know what? _He thought to himself, smiling at the wispy man on the screen, _I probably just saved the human race._

A warm hand rested on his shoulder. Glancing at the screen for a moment longer and seeing the general's own vague reflection, he turned his head to see the officer nodding in approval. "You did well, Freeman. Those Advisors aren't going to have much on you when they hear about this."

Gordon beamed. "Come on," he turned, heading for the elevator. "We should tell the Gman."

"Should we stay here until morning?" the general asked as they headed down the hallway to the lift.

Gordon scratched his furry chin pensively. "I want to check on the people in the streets. I hope there weren't too many people killed while we were heading over here."  
"Good idea," the general agreed, stepping onto the translucent blue platform with the physicist.

—

They didn't need to tell the Gman what had transpired up in the communication centre. They found him watching the blank screen behind the general's desk, turning in the chair as he heard the elevator arrive. Getting to his feet as the two stepped onto the tiled floor, he headed over to them with a grin mirroring Gordon's own immaculately. "Freeman, once again you demonstrate your extraordinary diplomatic abilities," he applauded the physicist as they met him before the general's desk. "I have great confidence that the Advisors will gladly accept your proposal. And trust me," he extended a hand to Gordon, "I assure you the Fissionist Faction will be behind you the whole way."

Gordon watched the Gman's hand, before he looked up and opened his arms wide. "Come here, man."

Pausing, the Gman retracted his arm. Then he smiled, hugging Gordon tightly. "Couldn't have done it without you," Gordon patted the Gman warmly on the back, pulling away. "I'm going to go and see how many people we lost, see if there's anyone that needs help."

The Gman nodded appreciatively, looking behind him at the starlit sky outside the slender windows. "We've certainly got time. I'll accompany you, in case anyone _does _need some help."

The group headed for the camouflaged door in the corner of the room. "Does the elevator still work?" Gordon frowned, remembering how brutal the Gman was with it earlier.

Opening the door into the adjacent room for Gordon and the general, the Gman shrugged. "I could always get it running again, if it isn't." He stepped past the bloody corpses lying behind the blood spattered desk near the door. "For someone who's tired of taking life, you certainly are good at it."

Gordon looked back at the Gman, frowning. "Doesn't mean I enjoy it."

"Rest assured I never contemplated such a contingency, Freeman." The Gman reassured him as they walked past the dead. "I'm a lot less heartless than you are... I think I remember telling you that sometime."

"A few days ago, yeah." Gordon agreed as they all stepped into the ajar doors of the elevator. Stepping in last, the Gman pressed a button on the interior panel. Unexpectedly, the doors closed with a quiet hiss. Gordon heard the Gman give a surprised hum as the elevator started to drop.

"How many people do you think got the message?" Gordon asked the general.

He shrugged. "Most of them, I'm willing to bet. Look, I doubt there's going to be anyone trying to kill us once, thinking about it. I mean, I'd certainly stop if I noticed everyone except my unit had stopped shooting. Hopefully that's how it is down on the ground."  
"Hopefully," Gordon agreed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Shit, I need to go to sleep." He mumbled as his vision blurred and came slowly back into focus.

"I'm not sure where you would," the general admitted, "but I'm sure something could be arranged up in my office while we wait for the Advisor to come back."

Gordon looked at him. "I don't think I've ever seen the Combine sleep. Do you?"

"Hell yes we do," the general snorted. "Don't forget most of the Overwatch used to be humans, and one thing we still do is sleep like you."

Pausing for a few moments, Gordon rubbed his gloved hands together. "Were you once human, general?"

The general looked at Gordon. "No," he answered after a short moment of silence. "I was converted about fifty years ago now. I was once part of a species known as the falumanan."

Gordon was about to say something, but the Gman got to it first. "So you came from...?" he proceeded to say some kind of gibberish that sounded to Gordon like someone slurping a drink while blowing their nose squeakily.

"You know of it?" the general seemed surprised.

"Absolutely," the Gman nodded. "You're quite lucky, it was a beautiful planet."

"The Combine treated it well," the general added. "Some of our buildings were destroyed during their conquest... but when we were declared independent they replaced them with so many good things."

"It's a pity that's never going to happen here." Gordon muttered sadly, thinking about everything that he'd done to the Combine Empire.

"Dr. Freeman, you are not to blame for the destruction of the Universal Union," the Gman asserted. "You were merely following the will of the Fissionist Faction, even though it was subconsciously. I have said before I and the fellow Members take full responsibility for what happened. Don't feel guilty about it, it wasn't your fault."

Gordon nodded pensively. "That would've been a good point to make to the Advisor. Damn."

"I'm sure there'll be an opportunity to make that known to the Advisors soon enough," the Gman added.

Standing silently for a moment, Gordon looked back at the Gman. "If the Advisors accept..."

"_When _they accept."  
"Yeah, alright," Gordon continued, considering the likelihood that the Advisors would refuse to comply with him and instead go on a suicidal rampage. "Anyway, I was wondering when the details would be sorted out. You know, arranging that peace organisation?"

The Gman straightened up importantly. "I and the other Members will see to everything whenever they are to be addressed. I couldn't tell you how things will proceed at present, but I guarantee we will finalise everything and this new era of the Combine Empire will operate in a manner much more suitable to the general ethics of the universe."

Gordon nodded slowly, stretching his arms behind his back anxiously, mulling the Gman's words over in his head.

_...manner much more suitable to the general ethics of the universe..._

A faint frown creased Gordon's otherwise enthusiastic visage. Fortunately, neither the general nor the Gman noticed the change, leaving him to think as the general sparked up another topic with the Gman.

_Is all this really more suitable for the universe?_

His frown deepened as his mind trailed off deeper into thought. _Is this really the right thing to do? Are we making real progress, replacing the Combine's brutal imperialistic methods with our own? How many nations among the stars would be more favourable to a peace organisation? Maybe only a few, perhaps even less? _

Had he made anything better?

Sure, mankind had been saved from the brutality of the Combine, since the Advisors couldn't really refute his ultimatum. Peace on Earth had returned.

_Human peace._

And then Gordon's eyes widened as he realised what he had done: he was no different from everyone else on this planet. As they had labelled the Combine as evil from their own standpoint as moral human beings, he had made plans for improvement of the Combine Empire's methods based on his own ethical views.

He saw it so clearly now; his eyes had been opened. He had been told that the Combine knew nothing of their own immorality, and he too up until this point had been entirely unaware of his own.

His ideas were wonderful to man, but to some species of alien this peaceful organisation might be an abomination. Certainly, they were not forced to become a part of it, but that just meant universal union through his methods were even more flawed than that of the Combine!

And then... something sparked in his mind. _Why hadn't the Advisor brought this up? Surely they had considered an organisation as this and realised how unfeasible it was?_

Gordon thought. And thought and thought and thought. And finally, after much consideration, he made a conclusion in his mind and his brow furrowed darkly.

_Motherfuckers._

"Gman, restrain the general." Gordon ordered coldly, his voice grave.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then, with a flash of dark bloodstained material, the general had raised his sidearm and pointed it directly at Gordon's temple. Apparently he wasn't taking any risks.

He didn't even get time to see his hand align with Gordon's head before the Gman had brought his arm down on the general's own and smoothly pulled the pistol from his hand, grabbing the slide and twirling it on his fingers as the general doubled over and squeezed his throbbing arm.

"How the hell did you find out?" the general spat, knowing full well it was pointless trying to justify pointing a gun at Gordon's head.

"Perhaps I was not being paranoid," the Gman muttered to himself. "I assume you saw it too, Gordon?"

Gordon nodded. "The Combine made too many slip ups, general. Little ones from only a few people, but still enough for me to figure out you've been fucking us over since you got here all those years ago."

The general straightened up, looking from Gordon to the gun-wielding Gman. "What slip ups?" he demanded furiously, as the doors of the elevator opened. Looking for a brief moment into the empty office-like room, Gordon stepped out. "Sit down, and I'll explain."

Gesturing with the stolen handgun, the Gman ushered the general into a nearby chair, standing guard as Gordon sat himself down on the desktop. Clasping his hands together with a resounding clap, Gordon stared into the general's mesmerising eyepieces. "Firstly, though, I want to know how many people were in on this little thing."

"What thing?"

With absolutely zero tolerance for bullshit, Gordon hoisted himself up onto the desk and kicked the general straight in the face. His chair sliding out from underneath him, the general hit the floor with a crash, the chair scraping against the material floor dully. "All the generals have been pulling shit about ethical difference and unity..." Gordon glared at the general, "...was the Swedish general in on it too?"

"Yes!" the general yelled, scrambling up against the wall as Gordon stood threateningly on the desk. "Everyone important enough knew about it! All the generals that went to Rostock before it got nuked, the Belgian and the Slovakian generals, everyone!"

"Bastard!" Gordon spat, unable to believe how easily the Swedish general had convinced him. "Did the colonel I shot know?"  
"He was just following orders..." the general explained weakly.

"And so the rest of the Combine has no idea about any of this?" Gordon demanded furiously. "Everyone that isn't a general cops shit when your lies cause people like me to do stuff to the Combine, believing all this crap about Advisor corruption and loyalty to whoever?"  
"Nobody below Brigadier."

Gordon let up momentarily, his fists clenched. Then he smiled. "Well, that explains a lot, doesn't it?" he looked over at the Gman complacently. "It explains why Rostock was nuked, completely without regard for the soldiers there, except four generals that went ahead to Switzerland to get further orders..." he paused, looking at the general fiercely. "Does Wallace Breen know?"

"No..." the general admitted wearily. "Look, Freeman... this is how the Combine operates. This is how we've _always _operated."

"So, you really aren't fabulously misunderstood people trying to unite the universe, are you? You're just lowlife, bloodthirsty cocksucking conquerors that don't give a shit about anything but ruling the universe, is that it?"

The general looked Gordon in the eyes, his stare masked by the glass covering it. "At least we made a name for our species, didn't we?" Malice had taken control of his words now.

Gordon ignored him. "And you spun Dr. Breen an intricate story about you all being such wonderful peacemakers. Do you always do that to your victims?"

"Why would our modus operandi be any different for scum like you?"

Gordon smiled. "And that also explains why the Phyx betrayed you. Everything you told us, up until two fucking minutes ago in that elevator, preaching about how fantastic the Combine made your planet after they'd finished taking over and turning you into a slave, was a big fat pile of crap, wasn't it?"

The general shrugged. "Of course it was. When I reached the rank I have now, I got informed by a confidential memo that similar things happened on my planet, and every other planet since the Primes conceived the idea at the start. It was a good trick; all that stuff about what the Combine thought was ethical and right was good enough to keep even the brightest bulbs complacent. It sure got you, Freeman."

"Yeah, but I just figured it out." Gordon reminded him.

"And what good's it going to do you now, huh?" the general demanded, sitting up. "The Advisor is on its way back to Switzerland. Once it gets there and tells the others that you really are a gullible idiot, things get set in motion to restore order on this planet once and for all."

"Like what?"

"Well, killing you, for starters. Why else do you think the Advisor insisted you remain nearby so it can _contact _you with its reply?"

Gordon smacked his head. "So, I was going to be ambushed, was I?"  
The general laughed. "Oh, no. You were going to be inside the Citadel when we blew it up."

"What?"

"There are dozens of soldiers down in the core at this very moment, Freeman. Waiting for the Advisors orders to blow it sky high."

"You included?"

The general snorted. "Of course not. I was going to slip out whenever I got the chance."

"And what if you hadn't?"

"Then I'd have died along with everyone else." He shrugged. "It was a price I was willing to pay to return order to this filthy planet."

Gordon, still standing up on the desk, jumped down and sat on the edge. "Well, hey, even though it won't help you get what you want, why not pay up early?"

With a curt nod at the Gman, the guardian pulled the trigger of the pistol in his hand, the slug slamming into the general's forehead at close range and spraying a torrent of dark gunk out onto the warm orange walls.

Lowering the handgun, the Gman looked at Gordon. "Did you figure it out in the elevator?"

"Yeah," Gordon nodded. "I thought about how quick the Advisor had been to leave after hearing my suggestion, and I wondered how the Combine couldn't have seen the abundant issues with the idea if they really had considered all possibilities."

"Abundant issues?" the Gman asked, frowning. "I thought it was quite good."  
"Well, I mean," Gordon shrugged. "Good from our standpoint. Fissionists and humans have similar morals. But then I realised other species might not join a peaceful organisation because it was an abomination to their culture, and that would make the universal unity situation worse."

"Right," the Gman nodded appreciatively, impressed with Gordon's knowledge.

"Then I thought about why the Phyx would betray the Combine if things really were so great on their planet, and after that I considered other possibilities to the explanations I'd been offered about things like the Rostock nuking, and how they fitted more suitably with what everyone had been saying about the Combine from the start: they came here to conquer us simply because they're evil. No relative ethics or any of that philosophical crap, just a deep desire to rule that wouldn't get in the way of anything." He smacked his head. "How the hell didn't I see it? Saying they had some sort of galactic senate and discovered nobody would rather peace over conquest, how stupid could I have been?"

Gordon rubbed his forehead. _They got me, ever since the Swedish general spoke to me a couple of days ago. Shit, he didn't even get killed by the Combine. Shephard killed him. How didn't I see this lie for what it was? How could I have even considered something so farfetched as truth?_

The Gman smiled. "You really are a brilliant man, Dr. Freeman." He complemented, interrupting Gordon's thoughts.

Gordon bowed his head. "Not smart enough to realise what was going on until it was too late, though?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, how the hell are we going to stop the Combine now? Looks like peace never really was a possibility."

The Gman smiled, placing a hand on Gordon's armoured back. "Don't you worry yourself about resolutions henceforth, Dr. Freeman," he chuckled quietly. "What matters is you've passed the test."

And before Gordon could even make an audible reply, the universe faded out into a rapidly spinning tunnel of light.

**May 17th, 2001, Black Mesa Research Facility**

All around him, unescapable and unavoidable, Gordon travelled through the cylinder of bright energy as it spun at a phenomenal speed all around him. He saw, at the indescribably distant end an infinitely small point of rainbow colour, spinning just as quickly in the opposite direction.

As he hung immobile in a state of blissful paralysis, the tiny pinprick grew. It was slow, painfully so, but as it grew ever larger he felt more and more numbness dissipating from his body, and with it a wonderful relief flooded over him like the effects of a drug.

Similar to morphine?

Even though he'd experienced it for so many years, soothing his innumerable lacerations from countless foes, he couldn't actually remember what it felt like, like the futile reminiscences of great achievements after waking from fabulous dreams.

After what seemed like eternity, the colour had filled his vision entirely, spinning so fast and yet each colour so clear and precise.

And then his vision was once again filled with white, but for only a period of time lasting shorter than any sort of measurement that had been conceived could describe. After the impossibly short flash of white, he saw blurred faces hovering over his head, faint pink lips moving quickly as whispers of joy soon became loud ecstatic cheers of jubilation as his hearing returned and faded images became clear as his eyesight focused.

He seemed to be strapped to some sort of bench, with people donned in perfectly white labcoats attending to him while they proclaimed their merriment at their success.

...

_Success?_

Unstrapped from the bench, Gordon sat up quickly, looking about himself as panic slowly rose in his mind. "Where am I?" he asked the scientists, fear creeping into his voice as he looked around the room and tried to get some sort of information on where he was.

It was a lab.

Just like at Black Mesa.

"Where am I?" he repeated, his tone laced with desperation.

"Dr. Freeman, please calm down," one of the scientists placed two warm hands on his shoulders. Feeling the warmth, Gordon looked down at his clothes. He was wearing a plain white shirt and black pants, "you've just come out of the simulation, there's no need to panic."

"What simulation?" he demanded furiously, looking even more frantically around him. The wall behind him was absolutely covered in machinery, glistening in the fluorescent light of the lab.

What was going on?

One of the scientists scratched his chin thoughtfully. "We predicted this might have happened..." he mumbled gruffly.

Gordon focused on the scientist, desperate to get whatever information he could. "Predicted what?"

"Dr. Freeman, about three hours ago you entered a prototype combat simulator we are developing for the Department of Defence to test the capability of intelligent civilians as militia during all forms of unfamiliar combat situations." His lips stretched into a wrinkly grin, while quite the opposite was happening inside Gordon's mind. "I'm proud to announce you have not only proved the machine operates exactly as we had hoped but that men like you certainly could defend this country in the event of surprise invasion."

Gordon looked around the room incredulously. _Simulation?_

"Of course, in the face of a well-crafted lie, you demonstrated that perhaps you would discover the truth beyond a point where any sort of action could be taken to rectify it, but I think that should hardly affect any decision those in power would make on the subject."

Gordon, only listening to the scientist's chatter in the back of his mind, continued looking around the room. Suddenly, something behind the plethora of white clad people caught his attention: a man in a blue suit holding a briefcase, watching intently from behind the mob.

Had he been there before?

Immediately recognising him, Gordon jumped to his feet and pushed the scientists aside, running toward the Gman. "Gman!" he exclaimed, before coming to a halt as two burly soldiers stepped in front of the pale suited man brandishing assault rifles.

Gordon stopped, unable to believe what he was seeing. "Wha—?"

"Dr. Freeman," one of the scientist's placed a hand on the physicist's shoulder reassuringly. "Frank Sheldon is one of the project's funders. He volunteered to have his appearance used as the avatar for the psychological enhancement entity... the Gman, as you knew him."

Mr. Sheldon smiled at Gordon. "You did well, Dr. Freeman." He congratulated Gordon, gently moving past the soldiers before him and offering Gordon his hand. Slowly, Gordon took it, noticing he also no longer wore gloves. "I'm glad I was able to witness such a remarkable breakthrough in virtual technology."

"We're ever so grateful for your financial support, Mr. Sheldon." The scientist standing behind Gordon added. "Especially Wallace Breen. Not to intrude, but I hear you and him have a history, is that correct?"

Mr. Sheldon nodded. "Indeed it is. We've known each other quite a while." He looked around the lab at all the wonderful machines filling it. "Besides, when he mentioned the project I couldn't help myself but help out however I could. The idea had monumental potential, and I wanted to make sure it bore fruit."

"And you can see it did." The scientist agreed. "As a good friend of this company, I trust you found our depiction of Aperture Science quite entertaining?"

A thin smile crossed Mr. Sheldon's face. It should have made Gordon happy. But it didn't. "While it lacked subtly and really any believability..."  
Another kick in the nuts to Gordon.

"...I have to admit it did get a good laugh out of me. Sentient AI trying to take over the world, teleporting a boat to Sweden and making an army of parasitic robots to do her bidding. Imagine a movie out of it!"

"Well," the scientist allowed himself a chuckle, "Dr. Laidlaw was one of the men working on writing the test scenarios. He writes science fiction in his spare time, I believe."

Mr. Sheldon nodded. "Perhaps I'll read one, if he ever gets it published." He looked around the room, clasping his hands together. "Well, I think I'd better be off. I trust great things will come from the work you're doing here."

"Thank you, Mr. Sheldon."

Looking at Gordon warmly, Mr. Sheldon smiled. "Goodbye, Dr. Freeman. Glad to have been of assistance."

And with that, he and the two soldiers — apparently he had a military entourage of some sort — exited the laboratory.

Gordon just stared at the door, long after it closed. "Are you alright, Dr. Freeman?" the scientist asked quietly. He sounded worried.

"I'm fine..." Gordon answered monotonously. He had no reason to emote, did he? He was tired, having just fought for something with all his energy for however long it had been, only to find he hadn't done any of it...

"...do you remember anything from before the simulation?" there was sincere concern in the scientist's tone.

Gordon didn't speak for a while. "No." He finally answered.

Nobody said anything else for a few moments more. "Alyx..." Gordon whispered quietly.

"Pardon?"

"Where's Dr. Vance?" he asked the scientist. Would they be the same people? "And Dr. Kleiner, or Dr. Magnusson? Were any of them working on this project?"

The scientist opened his mouth to speak, before pursing his lips pensively. "Well, uh... they were all a part of the simulation, Dr. Freeman. Other than yourself, the only person in the simulation with any connection to reality was the Gman. Oh, and Dr. Breen," he chuckled softly. "He thought it would be funny to be leader of the world yet hated by the people. He joked often about it being an allegory to reality, even though I personally couldn't ask for a better boss. He got you your job here, did you know?" he trailed off, remembering Gordon most certainly didn't.

Gordon looked back at the door. There was silence once more. "So... a combat simulator..."

"That's right," the scientist affirmed with a little too much enthusiasm.

"Why are you working on it?"

"Well, uh..." apparently he'd forgotten Gordon had no recollection of anything before it. "We had to secure continued government funding somehow, Dr. Freeman. Mr. Sheldon offered to endorse the project, as well as a few other friends of the Administrator."

"Who is Mr. Sheldon?"

"He's a businessman, Dr. Freeman. I think he owns a shipping company."

Gordon nodded slowly. "Uh... what day is it?"

"May 17th, Dr. Freeman."  
"2001?"

"Naturally."

"And so the simulation begins the day after?"  
"Well, no. It always starts on May 18th. That's why we had to do it the day before, so there was only a minimal gap between entering the simulator and having the simulation commence."

Gordon could remember it so well. He thought he'd woken up late that morning. Had waking up at that time been part of the simulation? Had it been a side effect? "So... this is the real Black Mesa?"

"Of course," the scientist smiled. "Welcome back to life, Dr. Freeman."

_Back to life? _

_Have I really returned... or have I passed on into Hell?_

"Is my dormitory in the same place as the simulation?" Gordon asked quietly.

"Oh, yes," the scientist brightened up a little. "The whole facility was mapped out identically in the simulation. Familiarity was of the essence in the first test, where the subject was required to tackle a hostile situation in a familiar environment. Then we moved onto unfamiliar environments, which we selected Constanta in Roma—" he trailed off as Gordon wandered away from him, heading for the door. "Uh, Dr. Freeman?" he called after the physicist, who ignored him, pushing the door open and stepping out into the hallway beyond.

The scientists stood around awkwardly for a moment. "Well, at least we were able to get some positive results," the scientist reminded everyone with weak enthusiasm. "I'm sure Wallace Breen will be excited to see the recording we have of the simulation."

With a few mumbled agreements, the scientists got back to work. Going back to his room would be good for him, maybe he'd see all his old stuff and remember everything. The poor man, he'd only been away three hours and to him it felt like years.

The things that had happened to him in there were terrible... surely he was glad knowing he never killed anyone.

He would be fine by himself.

...wouldn't he?


	37. Epilogue: Truth

**-=Epilogue: Truth=-**

Nobody was real.

Then again, that means nobody died. Nobody actually lost their life.

...

Except me.

Or at least, who I thought I was.

Who am I now?

Who are my friends, my family?

I don't even know what job I have here. Am I a physicist? If so, why was I involved in a simulation greenlit by the military and funded by friends of the Administrator?

What is truth, and what was part of the lie that was spun into an intricate web of binary code and psychological stimulations that so easily deceived me?

...

The Combine deceived me. But they were deceit incarnate, along with everything else I thought was the truth for the past however many years.

No, the real deceivers were my colleagues and their project.

And they weren't even the bad guys. They were just doing their job like half the people on Earth are.

Had I volunteered to be deceived?

What type of person was the Gordon Freeman that had volunteered?

And will I be around long enough to find out?

...

Probably not.

How ironic, I had desired the grave for so long. Had I died, would the simulation have ended?

Why didn't it end the first time I died?

Had my death and resurrection been part of the simulation?

Of course it had.

That was just another one of those tests, to see how I resolved the conflict of fighting for what was right or backing down when there was a much better option that would result in dire consequences for others.

Well then.

I wonder how well this whole simulation thing will go down with the media when they catch wind of the test subject's body being found, hanging from the roof?

* * *

**Surprised?**

**Shocked?**

**Pissed?**

**I have to admit, the end of this story changed SO MANY TIMES, all of them quite different from each other. One had the end in the Palace of Nations back a few chapters, another had Gordon killing himself after realising that universal euthanasia truly was the kindest way to deal with the universe, another still had the Combine Empire still intact and a huge epic happy ending where the evacuation fleet arrived and Gordon went down in history as the man who saved the universe (effectively).**

**And then, there was the one I thought I would do up until very recently, where the Advisors complied with Gordon's ultimatum and they all lived happily ever after. Until Gordon killed himself and went onto that better place with Alyx and everyone else.**

**This twist came out of nowhere.**

**Perhaps you'd have preferred that last ending over this. But hey, sorry if that's the case. Besides, if you have a look at one of the earliest chapters, the Swedish general says something about fixing everything up on Earth before the evacuation fleet arrived (i.e restoring Combine jurisdiction). That was an error I never fixed, and it turned out to work in the end.**

**Well, hey, I hope you don't want to cut my head off for this ending. I know it's rather anticlimactic and depressing, but I guess that's the whole point.**

**Thanks to everyone who stuck with this fic, and for all your kind words. It's great getting such a good response and I really hope this didn't completely ruin it for you. I could have ended it differently, but this one, I think, has the most impact, even if it doesn't leave you feeling as satisfied as you might with Gordon having a big old party at the end.**

**Thanks for reading... there might be more from me in the future.  
**


End file.
